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4 4 / 



TALES OF THE VILLAGE 


BY 


FRANCIS E.'h’AGET, M. A. 

RECTOR OF ELFORD, 

AND CHAPLAIN .TO THE LORD BISHOP OP OXFORD. 


Secon'D .Scries. 


“ Now if a shepherd know not which gra.S3 will bane, and which 
not, how is he fit to be a shepherd ? Wherefore the Parson hath 
thoroughly canvassed all the particulars of human actions, at least 
all those which he observeth are most incident to his parish.” 

Herbert’s Country Parson. 



FIRST AMERICAN EDITION. 


NEW- YORK : 

D. APPLETON & CO. 200 BROADWAY. 

PHILADELPHIA : 

GEO. S. APPLETON, 148 CHESNUT-STREET. 


MDCCCXLIV. 


TaSl 

£ 



Albert Adsit Olemons 
Auar. 24, 1938 
(Not available for exohange) 


liATJS DEO. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Advertisement ........ 5 

CHAPTER I. 

The Mourners ........ 9 

CHAPTER 11. 

The Village Gossips ....... 25 

CHAPTER III. 

The Mynchery ........ 43 

CHAPTER IV. 

Chance and Change 69 

CHAPTER V. 

The Return 89 

CHAPTER VI. 

Self-Confidence 105 

CHAPTER VII. 

A friendly Warning ....... 123 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Youthful Trials 14.3 




CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Forms and Formularies ...... 159 

CHAPTER X. 

The Way of the World ...... 183 

CHAPTER XI 

The Way of the Church ...... 201 



« 


' h 


i 


?Cf)e ptourncrs. 


’Tis sweet, as year by year wc lose 
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse 
How grows in Paradise our store. 

Then pass, ye mourners, cheerly on. 

Through prayer unto the tomb ; 

Still, as ye watch life’s falling leaf. 

Gathering from every loss and grief 
Hope of now spring and endless home. 

Christian Tear. 


i 


% 





* 



CHAPTER I. 

Late in the afternoon of a “brief November day,” I 
found myself approaching the church of Abbot’s-Arderne, 
a village some two miles south-west of my own parish 
of Yateshull, and on the opposite side of the river Trent. 

The day was not ungenial for the time of year — in- 
deed, the air was soft and warm ; but there is something 
of peculiar melancholy in that season, when the rich and 
varied hues of autumn having passed away, its sombre 
accompaniments only remain; when nature has not as- 
sumed her winter garb ; and when, instead of clear bright 
skies, and frosty, but bracing and healthful air, dark, 
leaden clouds invest with one monotonous hue of sullen 
gray every feature of the landscape, or thick, penetrating 
vapours obscure it from the sight. It was so on the pre- 
sent occasion : the incessant rains and equinoctial gales 
had ceased ; but the whole atmosphere was so overcharg- 
ed with 'moisture, that the drops fell fast and thick from 
the boughs of the now almost leafless trees, and wreaths 
of mist hung upon the meadows, and followed the wind- 
ings of the swollen river. All around me was dark and 
cheerless ; and I felt the depressing influences which the 


13 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


sight of decaying nature can hardly fail to produce in 
those who rejoice in its opening bloom. 

But if the day was melancholy, not less so was the 
task in which 1 was about to be engaged. 

My friend Walter Long, the vicar of Arderne, had 
that morning requested me to read the burial-service over 
one of his parishioners ; a lady with whom he and his 
family had long lived in such habits of friendship and 
daily intercourse, that he felt himself quite unequal to the 
personal discharge of the painful duty which had devolv- 
ed upon him. Nor could I wonder at his distress j for 
the deceased Mrs. Fullerton was one of those persons 
whose loss is felt acutely, far beyond their own immedi- 
ate household ; and she had been cutoff, after a very few 
days of severe suffering, in almost the prime of life. Her 
husband, who had died twelve or fourteen years previ- 
ously, had placed such unbounded confidence in her, that 
he had left her his estate of Godsholme for life, and con- 
stituted her sole guardian of his son and only child. 

At Godsholme Mrs. Fullerton had resided from the 
commencement of her widowhood ; the only companions 
of her solitude being her son, and a little girl, the orphan 
child of a distant relative of her late husband, whom she 
had adopted in infancy, and whose education was at once 
the anxiety and solace of her life. But although Mrs. 
Fullerton lived in comparative retirement, seldom moving 
from home, or visiting for visiting’s sake, she was, per- 
haps, the most universally popular person in the neigh- 
bourhood, and her society was courted as that of a wo- 
man of most pleasing manners and cultivated mind. 
But the deceased lady was much more than this[;Tor 


THE MOURNERS. 


13 


while she exercised at home the hospitality which was 
befitting her means and position in life, and thereby gain- 
ed the good-will of her equals, it was among her inferi- 
ors that her character was most truly known and appre- 
ciated. Like the good Shunamite of old, she might have 
said, “I dwell among mine own people and her own 
people had daily experience of the advantages which 
that simple expression secured to them. Charitable in 
the true sense of the term, (neither profuse, that is, not 
indiscriminate ; neither encouraging indolence, nor allow- 
ing herself to be imposed upon,) she was as much rever- 
enced as loved. Compassionate and kind-hearted, she 
grudged neither cost nor pains, whenever it was in her 
power, to alleviate the trials of those who were in sick- 
ness or sorrow. Courteous and gentle, yet sincere and 
open as the day, she said what she meant, and meant 
what she said. Sound in judgment, and with fewer pre- 
judices than fall to the lot of most persons, she was al- 
ways a safe adviser in difficulties, and was ever ready to 
aid with her counsels her poorer neighbours; among 
whom, indeed, she was looked upon as the universal re- 
feree. These were some of the qualities which endeared 
her to her dependents, and fitted her to discharge the 
duties of her appointed station. 

She had, however, yet higher claims on our regard and 
admiration ; for she was one of the humblest, most sim- 
ple-minded Christians with whom it has been my happi- 
ness to become acquainted; and she was quite a pattern 
to those around her in the quiet practical discharge of 
religious duties. Indeed, religion was with her the one 
* 2 Kings iii. 13. 

2 ^ 




14 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


object of existence : hy this all the petty details of her 
daily life were hallowed ; from this they all took their 
tone ; to this all her thoughts and wishes (so far as hu- 
man infirmity permits) were referred. Upon mature re- 
flection and conviction, a sound and zealous Churchwo- 
man, she became on that ground a peculiar blessing to 
the parish where she dwelt. Ever, in carrying out her 
schemes of usefulness, did she act in subordination to the 
parochial minister, asunto God’s priest and Christ’s ambas- 
sador. Never did she permit herself to meddle — (no com- 
mon praise for zeal in these times !) — with matters which 
were beyond her province j never did she interfere with 
a trust whidi had not been committed to her ; never did 
she sanction with her name or influence, measures, per- 
sons, or societies, which the clergyman of the parish did 
not approve. Her happiness (and her wisdom) was to 
act under him, to co-operate with him in his labours, and 
to aid him in them to the full extent of her means ; not 
giving grudgingly or of necessity, when called on to de- 
vote a portion of her substance to pious uses, but receiv- 
ing the invitation to do so with thankfulness, and esteem- 
ing it a very high privilege to be permitted in any way 
to contribute to God’s honour, or the extension of His 
kingdom. 

“ And being such as this,” thought I to myself, as I 
walked along, “ how mysterious is the dispensation which 
has thus suddenly cut off such an exemplary person from 
the land of the living, while her light was shining so 
brightly before men, and she was adorning the doctrine of 
God our Saviour in all things ! ‘ Her sun is gone down 

while it is yet day and, oh, how sorely will its light be 
* Jer. XX. 9. 


THE MOURNERS. 


15 


needed ! Her boy, just of an age when such a parent’s 
advice and guidance would ^be most valuable. Little 
Mildred Clifford too, poor thing ! deprived of a mother’s 
care, and left, I fear, without a home or a friend in the 
world ! Well, God’s ways are not our ways, neither are 
our thoughts His thoughts ! Often does He remove the 
person most needed, at the time apparently most needful 
for their continuance among us; as if to show us that 
He requires not the aid of man, and that He can work 
His will as effectually with one instrument as with anoth- 
er. There is comfort in this ; and there is comfort in the 
thought that by being summoned thus early, poor Mrs. 
Fullerton may have been saved many a sorrow and many 
a trial. It is a most consoling doctrine that ‘ the right- 
eous is taken away from the evil to come ;’ and how 
cheering are the words of the book of Wisdom : ‘ Though 
the righteous be prevented with death, yet shall he be in 
rest. For honourable age is not that which standeth in 
length of time, nor that is measured by number of years : 
but wisdom is the gray hair unto men, and an unspotted 
life is old age.’ ”* 

Thus musing with myself, I approached the church- 
yard of Arderne. The bell was tolling ; the lich-gates 
were already set open for the admission of the funeral 
train ; and to my right a mound of fresh earth showed 
the position of the new- dug grave. I afterwards learned 
that it was by her own especial desire that no vault or 
resting-place within the church had been prepared for 
her ; she desired, she said, “ that no difference should be 


Wisd. iv. 7, 9. 


16 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


made between herl-emains and those of her fellow-Chris- 
tians who were sleeping round her : earth should be re- 
stored to earth, and dust to dust.” 

I entered the church ; but finding I had arrived too 
soon, I returned once more into the open air, and strove 
to bring my mind into perfect unison with the solemn 
duty I was about to perform ; and by meditating on the 
mortality of others, to prepare the more effectually for 
my own. 

It was a lovely spot, that humble [cemetery. The 
church itself, built, as so many of our country churches 
are, close to the manor-house, possesses considerable 
architectural beauty, and seems from the earliest times 
to have been an object of constant interest to the lords 
of the soil, whose grim and mutilated effigies lie recum- 
bent on altar-tombs of sculptured alabaster, or are still 
to be traced on the monumental brasses which nearly 
cover the chancel-floor. The church-yard is surround- 
ed on three sides by the gardens and pleasure-grounds 
of Arderne Court ; and the tall cypress and dark um- 
brageous cedar, together with the venerable yews, throw 
their deep shadows over the surface of a smooth and 
neatly kept lawn, which, but for those long narrow hil- 
locks that appear at intervals, and the tombstones which 
now and then break the regularity of the outline, is but 
little likely to convey the thought that the worm of corrup- 
tion holds his feast below. 

Yet, mingled with so much calm beauty, there was 
an air of solemn sadness around. The entire seclusion 
of the spot ; the silence, unbroken save by the occasional 
tollings of the bell, and the cawing of the rooks in the ad- 


THE MOURNERS. 


17 


joining grove ; the sombre hue of the evergreens, which, t 
for the most part, surrounded it ; the heaps of withered 
leaves that strewed the ground on every side, — all these 
were calculated to impress the mind with grave and 
solemn thoughts, and to reiterate (though with still, small 
voice) the awful exhortation, to watch and pray, because 
we “know not the hour.” 

And now the bell, which had hitherto given out its 
tone at distant and broken intervals, became at once more 
regular, and was tolled more rapidly, till, as the dark 
forms of the mourners were discerned among the trees, 
the full peal burst forth joyously, — not jarring on the feel- 
ings, or mocking the sorrows of the living, but welcom- 
ing, as it were, the dead in Christ to their calm repose, 
and speaking the Church’s greeting to such as, resting 
from their labours, were about to be committed to their 
consecrated bed, in sure and certain hope of a glorious 
re-awakening. 

The funeral-train advanced, and I went forth to meet 
it. The intention of the family of the deceased lady had 
been, that the solemnity should be as unostentatious and 
private as possible ; and, indeed, some half-dozen of her 
kinsmen and friends formed the original procession. But 
as it proceeded on its way, the numbers had augmented 
rapidly ; and when the corpse entered the churchyard, it 
was followed by no inconsiderable portion of the popula- 
tion of Arderne. The poor (so often spoken of as though 
they were unfeeling, because they do not with sickly sen- 
timent talk about what they feel, and because those who 
so speak of them do not understand them) have their own 
quiet ways of showing gratitude ; and a few blunt words 


18 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


of sympathy from them, or some sincere yet simple-heart- 
ed demonstration of good will, are, to my mind, worth all 
the empty fluent professions of that class, which is apt to 
arrogate to itself the exclusive possession of delicacy and 
refinement. 

Such evidence of their kindly feeling was not wanting 
on the present occasion. Mrs. Fullerton had been, as I 
have already intimated, in a special manner, the friend 
and favourite of her poorer neighbours. As of the patri- 
arch Job, so might it be said of her, that “ when the ear 
heard her, then it blessed her ; when the eye saw her, it 
gave witness to her ; the blessing of him that was ready 
to perish came upon her ; and she caused the widow’s 
heart to sing for joy.”* And now, when her bounty and 
kindness had ceased, and when no interested motives for 
a show of gratitude could exist, they, whom that bounty 
had supported, or whose trials her many acts of kindness 
had lightened, voluntarily came forward to pay their 
humble tribute of respect to her memory, and of affec- 
tionate regret. The children whom she had taught at 
school, their parents, and not a few infirm, tottering crea- 
tures, who had scarce left their cottages for months, form- 
ed the rear of the mourning company. “ Madam Fuller- 
ton,” they said, ‘‘ had been a good friend to them and 
theirs, and they would even see the last of her.” So 
they followed her to her grave j some few habited in de- 
cent mourning, but the rest in their usual daily dress, — 
only, perhaps, a handkerchief that once was black, or a 
bit of faded riband, or rusty crape, had been added for 


Job xxix. 11-13. 


THE MOURNERS. 19 

the occasion, as the only outward signs of woe which 
their humble means afforded. But there was sorrow on 
every face— the index of an aching heart within. 

Thus accompanied, the corpse was carried, for the last 
time, into the house of God ; the service within the walls 
of the church was concluded ; and then, once more, the 
procession was formed. The grave had been dug at the 
foot of a taper cross of stone, of exquisite design, which, 
in this burial-ground (and, I believe, in some few others) 
has still been preserved uninjured ; undamaged by the 
storms of centuries, and (happier still !) unbroken by pu- 
ritanical violence ; fixed with its massive base amid the 
relics of mortality, and pointing, with exulting head, to 
that bright world where tears shall be wiped from off all 
faces, and where He for ever dwells who hath taken the 
sting from death, who hath tamed the strength of hell, 
and made the grave the gate of immortality. 

Hither the coffin is borne : it is lowered into its narrow 
resting-place; “ earth’^ is consigned “to earth,' ashes to 
ashes, dust to dust;” the prayers are concluded, the bless- 
ing pronounced, and the service of the Church is over. 

Then it was that the two persons most deeply con- 
cerned in this impressive and melancholy scene appeared 
to become sensible, for the first time, of its stern reality. 
Hitherto, under the novelty of their trial, or the stunning 
effects of grief, they had remained utterly passive, in- 
stinctively doing what was suggested to them, but scarce- 
ly seeming conscious of the extent of their bereavement. 
It is ever thus in severe afflictions : it is not at first that 
the heart knoweth its own bitterness ; the sharpest pangs 
are not felt till excitement is over, and there is no pressing 


20 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


call for further exertion. Up to this time exertion was 
needed ; and, no doubt, both of them had exerted their 
utmost for the sake of the other — Mark for Mildred, and 
Mildred for Mark ; and so they had stood, side by side, 
their faces indeed buried in their handkerchiefs, but with- 
out that violence of outward grief to which undisciplined 
minds would have given way. When, however, the fu- 
neral-service ceased, and the crowd on either side fell 
back, in order to allow the youthful mourners to take a 
last look at the coffin Avhich contained the remains of her 
whom both had loved with the depth of filial devotion, — 
then it seemed that the greatness of their desolation burst 
upon them ; for every tinge of colour faded from the lad’s 
fine manly face, as Mark Fullerton drew Mildred’s arm 
within his own, and led her forward to the foot of the 
grave ; while she, brushing away with her hand the long 
dishevelled ringlets of fair hair that covered her beautiful 
face, raised her eyes with deep affection towards him ; 
and then, giving one long, piercing, agonized look into 
the open grave, hid her face in her hands, and sobbed as 
though her heart was breaking. 

Oh ! that last look ! — the last ! — even though it be in 
death and sorrow — the last look ! how vividly is its re- 
membrance borne in our bosoms while life continues ! 

After some brief pause, Mark and Mildred turned 
away in overwhelming grief from the spot where they 
had been standing ; the other mourners slowly follow ; 
the sexton assumes their place ; and, as the crowd retires, 
‘ that sound is heard which, often as I hear it, I never yet 
could listen to with indifference, and which I think is the 
most curdling, the most chilling, and the saddest that 


THE MOURNERS. 


21 


ever falls on mortal ear,— the sharp hollow rattle occasion- 
ed by the first spadeful of gravel falling on the coffin-lid, 
succeeded by duller and duller reverberations, as the soil 
is filled in. 

“ Ah, well-a-day !” I heard an old man exclaim to his 
lame companion, as I followed them down the church- 
walk; “well-a-day, Becky! if ever there was a good 
Christian soul, I do believe she lies in that grave yonder.” 

“You may say that, neighbour; and what we poor 
creatures shall do without her, the Lord only knows.” 

“ Ay, ay ; many a comfortable bit and sup have we 
had from her kitchen, and many a yard of good warm 
clothing : more, by token, she ordered Master Saunders 
to make this coat for me, for she said she couldn’t abide 
my wearing such an old one on Christmas-day.” 

“ Poor lady I she little thought then that you would 
so soon wear it at her burying,” rejoined Becky. “We 
shall be sore losers now she’s gone ; for it’s not like that 
they young things will take much thought about us poor 
folk.” 

“And that’s true,” said the old man; “they’ll have 
gayer thoughts by and by. I’ll warrant them, for all they 
are so downcast and tearful to-night.” 

“I’ll tell you what it is, Simeon Clayton; they may 
be light-hearted again before long : they are young, and 
it is but natural ; but they will never be as they have 
been ; their eyes are opened this day, and they have learn- 
ed what this world is made of— sorrow and trial for the 
young ; and for the old, aches and pains, as we know full 
well, Simeon. God help us !” 

“Yes,” thought I to myself; “poor children, their 

3 


22 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


eyes are opened to-day. There is no sorrow in after-life 
like the sorrow of the first bereavement. As we grow 
in years, we become callous, case-hardened, selfish ; our 
thoughts are centred in ourselves j our own interests 
and comforts are the things which occupy our minds ; we 
set aside painful thoughts, and so habituate ourselves to 
look on calmly and composedly, as friends and kinsfolk 
drop into their graves. But in youth it is not so ; the 
warm feelings of the heart are then as yet unchilled by 
the world’s influence ; our bright hopes are then un dim- 
med by disappointment ; our generous, open tempers are 
as yet not soured by self-love. Yet, bitter and enduring 
as is an early affliction, the lesson which it is calculated 
to convey is far more easily learned in youth than in ma- 
turer years. True, the grave once opened, never closes 
till we are ourselves laid within it ; the tears shed in our 
first bereavement are never wholly dried ; all after-sor- 
rows take their tone from that absorbing one. Still, in my 
estimation, they are the happiest whose trials come upon 
them ere the mind of innocent and simple childhood has 
passed away, and with it the trusting, child-like habits of 
submission, which are the best preparation for making 
God’s will our own, and for acquiring the most difficult of 
all things — the hard-learnt lesson of obedience. May the 
present grievous chastening yield the peaceable fruit of 
righteousness unto them that are exercised thereby !” 

With these thoughts in my mind, I proceeded on my 
way, enjoying the balmy freshness of the autumnal even- 
ing. A light air sprang up ; the mist that hung upon the 
lowlands was dispelled ; the sun, so long obscured, burst 
forth for a while, warming, cheering, invigorating the face 


THE MOURNERS. 


23 


of nature ; and then, amid its cloudy pavilion of gold, and 
purple, and all other gorgeous hues, went down behind 
the roof of Arderne church, — appropriate termination to 
the scene in which I had been engaged — meet emblem 
of the rest of those who sleep in Jesus, and who, when 
their light has shone its appointed time before men, shed 
forth accumulated lustre in the moment of their depar- 
ture, and then fading from before us, sink but to rise upon 
another hemisphere, and beam out with unfading splen- 
dour in a pure and cloudless sky ! 



f 



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4 


5r!)c UUIafle CSossfps. 


Yet here Disguise, the city’s vice, is seen, 

And slander steals along and taints the green; 

At her approach domestic peace is gone. 
Domestic broils at her approach come on ; 

She to the wife the husband’s crime conveys. 
She tells the husband when his consort strays ; 
Her busy tongue through all the little state 
Diffuses doubt, suspicion, and debate. 

Crabbs ; The Village. 


• 3 * 





% 



If the inhabitant of a city pleases, he may pass his 
days unnoticed and unknown ; for there is no solitude so 
profound as his who finds himself alone in a crowd. Un- 
less he courts observation, scarce any one will give them- 
selves the trouble to inquire whence he comes, or whither 
he goes ; nay, his next-door neighbours may live and die 
in ignorance of his very name. But there is po such state 
of existence in the small town, or country village. In such 
limited communities every man’s eye is on his neighbour, 
every body’s ear is open to his neighbour’s doings ; and 
woe be to the unlucky wight who imagines that he can 
so much as set two dishes on his dinner-table without an 
inquisitive friend having previously ascertained the con- 
tents of his covers. 

To illustrate my meaning, and introduce the reader 
to some ladies with whom he will soon be better ac- 
quainted : 

“Mrs. Adderbury is expecting her sister Darnaway,” 
observes Miss Peck ; “for Beeves the butcher says she 
has ordered a sv/eetbread for Tuesday.” 

“Yes,” rejoined Miss Burr, on the occasion alluded 
to ; “ and if Lucy Darnaway comes. I’ll engage that 


28 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


Lieutenant Seabear isn’t far behind. Indeed, I as good 
as know that all three of them are to drink tea with the 
Kipps’s on Wednesday, for Susan Kipps has sent her old 
brown silk to Miss Rigmaiden’s to be turned (more, by 
token, it has been turned twice already) j and Miss Rig- 
maiden told me she was to be sure to have it ready by 
Wednesday morning; and Mrs. Kipps herself asked me 
how many eggs I put in my tea-cakes. She never would 
make tea-cakes, you know, unless she was going to give 
a tea-party ; and she never asks any body to tea but the 
Kents and Adderburys, — and the Kents, you know, are 
all ill with the mumps.” 

Such are the objects of daily interest, such the tenour 
of daily conversation, among a not uncommon class of per- 
sons in country places. And happy would it be for them- 
selves, and for those around them, if the general tone and 
temper of their remarks were as innocuous as in the spe- 
cimen just quoted. But when they who have much leis- 
ure and few resources once allow themselves to get into 
habits of gossiping, they soon become busy-bodies and 
evil-speakers ; the most trivial actions of others become 
important in their eyes; the worst construction is put 
upon every thing ; where no motive is alleged, it costs 
them little effort to invent one ; and as the thirst of ac- 
quiring and imparting the news of the day increases, 
Christian charity is lost in the love of scandal, and Chris- 
tian meekness gives place to ill-natured tattle and cen- 
soriousness. 

Like all other parishes, the parish of Yateshull had 
its gossips; and at the time to'which I allude the office 
was ably filled by two ladies, Miss^Prowle and her niece, 


THE VILLAGE GOSSIPS. 


29 


Miss Burr, who occupied a comfortable residence in our 
main street, (selected because it commanded a view of 
three roads,) and who, for want of other employment, 
“spent their time,” like the Athenians of old, “ in nothing 
else, but either to tell or hear some new thing.” Of the 
former of these ladies — namely. Miss Anna Maria Prowle 
— it is sufficient to say, that, having been a coquette in 
her youth, and having now numbered six-and-fifty sum- 
mers, she had passed half a century with as little profit to 
herself or her fellow-creatures as can be conceived. She 
might have been the original of Cowper’s painful portrait : 

“ Of temper as envenom’d as an asp, 

Censorious, and her every word a wasp. 

In faithful memory she records the crimes 
Or real or fictitious of the times, 

Laughs at the reputations she has torn, 

And holds them dangling at arm’s length in scorn.” 

Whether this unfortunate person had experienced disap- 
pointments which had soured her temper, whether she 
had laboured under [early disadvantages, or had been 
driven by want of occupation to become as mischievous 
and meddling a character as she was when I became ac- 
quainted with her, I know not ; but all that I saw of her 
led me to judge that she was a miserable being, who 
could only find alleviation of her own pain while she was 
inflicting it on others. Once, and only once, (it was dur- 
ing an attack of dangerous illness,) did I find myself able 
to touch that seared and callous heart ; she then spoke 
with bitter remorse of the unprofitableness of her past 
existence, and acknowledged how deeply she had offend- 


30 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


ed God with sins of the tongue. As she recovered, I had 
really hoped to see a pernmanent change in her character ; 
but, alas ! the good seed had fallen on a soil where weeds 
soon sprang up and choked it. With returning health 
she returned to her ancient habits, — like the opium-eater, 
who cannot exist without the drug that is killing him, — 
she found her life insupportable without the stimulus of 
scandal ; and when I gently urged on her the fulfillment 
of her promises to employ her mind in more profitable 
things, and occupy herself in the discharge of active du- 
ties, she replied that my advice would have been very 
appropriate for the head of a family, “ but a single wo- 
man,” she added, “ has no duties !” 

Alas ! what a miserable, and yet how common a fal- 
lacy is this ! — for to what, but to such a principle adopted 
and acted upon, is the popular notion attributable which 
makes “ an old maid” the personification of uselessness 
and selfishness ? How grievous it is that the whole body 
of unmarried females should thus be made answerable 
for the errors of a portion oftheir number, and how unjust, 
in many instances, is the charge against them ! As for 
one, who, because she is single, persuades herself that 
society has no claims upon her, I scarce know whether 
she is most to be piiied or contemned. How thankless 
must such an one be for the leisure afforded her for the 
improvement of her own mind ; how insensible to the op- 
portunities of doing all the good within her reach ; how 
forgetful of the reiterated admonitions of Holy Writ, that 
in eveiij state and condition of life we are accountable 
beings, and that for every action committed in that state 
we shall be called to account ! 


THE VILLAGE GOSSIPS. 


31 


On the other hand, what character is more lovely in 
the eyes of God and man than that of one whose days 
are spent in a course of quiet usefulness, and whose am- 
bition rises no higher than to become an object of inter- 
est and regard to those around her? Good temper, 
gentleness, and unobtrusiveness, freedom from jealousies, 
vanity, and peevishness, together with a steady, modest 
demeanour, must, of necessity, form the chief ingredients 
in such a character ; and so close an union of amiable 
qualities can scarcely fail to make it attractive in its do- 
mestic circle. In fact there is no class to whom social 
life owes more than it does to unmarried females. How 
many parents have had their declining years supported ' 
and solaced by the devotion of daughters, who, for their 
sakes, and 'in order to minister to their infirmities, and 
alleviate the ravages of disease and sorrow, have (it 
may be) declined the marriage-state ! How many orphan 
children have owed their nurture, their education, and 
their principles, to the piety and the generous, affection- 
ate attention of some unmarried sister or aunt ! And, to 
take a wider field of observation, where shall we find 
such kind friends to the poor, — where such efficient vis- 
itors of our schools, our hospitals, our benevolent societies, 
— where such cheerful, ready co-operators in the labours 
of Christian charity, — in one word, where shall we find 
such blessings to a neighbourhood as among this too 
often despised and depreciated class ? 

But to return from this digression. I have described 
Miss Prowle ; I must therefore proceed to the less easy 
task of bringing Miss Burr before the eyes of my readers. 

It is said that persons of dissimilar habits live more 


32 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


happily together than those whose dispositions closely 
resemble each other; and I suppose this was the secret 
of the'bond of union (such as it was) between Miss Prowle 
and her niece, for, in many respects, the contrast between 
them was complete. True, both were ill-educated, nar- 
row-minded, mischief-making women ; both were gossips 
and busy-bodies : but the one was full of black spite, and 
cold, calculating malevolence ; the other was only a silly, 
thoughtless tattler. The one loved slander for its own 
sake ; the other had so much of the milk of human kind- 
ness about her, that she did not invent the libels she re- 
tailed. If, instead of having been condemned to live 
with aunt Prowle, Sophy Burr had been in independent 
circumstances, or had been able to find a more comfort- 
able home, she might have been an agreeable ‘and useful 
member of society ; but no one can touch pitch without 
being defiled. Naturally she had no turn for gossiping; 
but having been employed by her aunt to gain informa- 
tion for her, she gradually acquired a taste for that which 
at the outset she had despised. She was a brisk, 
active little body, sharp as a needle, busy as a bee, who 
seemed to be almost possessed of the gift of ubiquity. 
She went everywhere, contrived to see every thing, and 
to know every body; chattered incessantly whenever 
she could find a listener, and when she could not, she 
chattered to herself. Meet you where she might, she 
stuck to you with the tenacity of a leech. Vain were 
your efforts to shake her off ; she was insensible to hints 
and deaf to rebuffs. So long as she supposed that you 
were in possession of information which she desired, she 
remained immovable at your side. And (to use her own 


THE VILLAGE GOSSIPS. 


33 


expression) till she had pumped ii out, or sucked it out, 
she had no notion of dropping off. 

Having none of the pride of aunt Prowle, Miss Burr 
was often set to do her dirty work, and did it effectually 
and unconsciously; but having none of her aunt’s ill- 
nature, she occasionally healed the wounds which she 
had inflicted. She stood, however, in great awe of her 
aunt, and was rather servile and obsequious in her man- 
ner towards her; so that it was commonly said, that 
whatever the aunt hinted the niece asserted, and 
whatever the aunt asserted the niece asseverated. Still, 
as I have said, she was not as unamiable as Miss Prowle. 
She did not act with deliberate malice; she was only a 
tool in her aunt’s hands; the disseminator of mischief 
which an abler head had concocted. Miss Prowle was like 
the hornet, whose sting is concentrated venom ; Miss Burr 
resembled a gnat, whose bite is hardly more annoying 
than its shrill, wearisome buzz. Both are offensive in- 
sects, — sad pests in their different ways; but there can 
be no hesitation as to which is the most to be dreaded. 

Such being the habits of these two ladies, my readers 
will not be surprised to hear me confess that a visit to 
them was always something of a penance to me ; per- 
haps not the less so, because it was quite evident that 
one of them, at least, both feared and disliked me. When 
I first came to reside at Yateshull, I speedily found out 
that all the proceedings of the new incumbent were 
closely watched ; every thing I said or did was canvassed, 
and compared with what my lamented predecessor had 
done under similar circumstances. In this there was 
nothing unusual or unexpected, nor had I the slightest 


34 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


objection to it ; the sooner I was known to my parishion- 
ers the better. But I next discovered that a great many 
things which I had never said or done were imputed to 
me; that I was made answerable for opinions I had 
never broached, and doctrines I had never inculcated ; 
that all manner of false constructions were put upon my 
motives; and that any alterations which I thought it 
necessary to adopt in the system of the last vicar, were 
alleged as high crimes and misdemeanours against me, 
and a feeling of distrust and irritation was daily on the 
increase. Fortunately for myself, I found out acci- 
dentally that Miss Prowle was at the bottom of all the 
mischief. Of course I lost no time in expostulatingwith her, 
and in speaking my mind very plainly. This step appa- 
rently took her quite by surprise. Being what is called 
a manoeuvrer herself, she was unprepared for open deal- 
ing in others. So having made some lame excuses, 
which I quietly listened to and then as quietly set aside, 
she betook herself to her pocket-handkerchief, and wept 
and sobbed vigorously. I waited patiently till she had 
exhausted herself, and then took leave of her with some 
few words of grave and stern admonition. The conse- 
quence was, that having satisfied herself that I was not 
one to be trifled with in such matters, she never interfered 
with me again in the discharge of my parochial duties. 
I succeeded, as I intended, in making her afraid of me ; 
and her personal dislike, though I regretted it, was a 
thing of which it was best to appear wholly unconscious. 
Once she tried to be affronted ; but having assured her 
that I had long laid it down as a rule to myself never to 
quarrel with any of my parishioners, nor to allow them to 


THE VILLAGE GOSSIPS. 


35 


quarrel with me, she found she had no help for it but to 
appear on good terms with me ; and accordingly, though 
there was war in her heart, her words, whenever we met, 
were soft as oil, and smooth as butter. 

The reader may think these details unimportant; but 
he will see hereafter that they had no inconsiderable in- 
fluence on the fortunes of one person at least who holds 
a place in the ensuing pages. 

A day or two after the burial of Mrs. Fullerton, I had 
occasion to call upon Miss Prowle. She was at home 
and alone, and received me, as usual, very courteously, 
but with a constraint and reserve in her manner which 
always made me feel that she was not at her ease'with 
me. By and by Miss Burr joined us. She had “ been 
driving,” she said, “to Chatterton — always went there 
on market-day, if she could — saw so many friends — heard 
so much news ; — magistrates’ meeting too — Mrs. Jenks’s 
maid had stolen the riband, but the silver tea-spoon and 
the tinder-box had got into the hog-tub by accident ; — 
Dick Cheslinn, that was whipped last spring for robbing 
his grandmother’s henroost, was sent to the treadmill ; 
Mr. Pain’s fine waistcoat was found in his box ; — terrible 
angry scene there had been at the Chequers between 
Mr. Hye and Mr. Drigh about the stile and finger-post 
on Blothermire bank; certainly going to the Court of 
King’s Bench about it.” 

Thus Miss Burr babbled on till her breath failed her ; 
when I expressed a hope that she was none the worse for 
her walk to Arderne, where I had caught a glimpse of 
her in the churchyard among the spectators at the fune- 
ral. “ You saw,” I added, “ a very melancholy sight.” 


36 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


“ Sight, sir !” said Miss Burr, catching the only word 
in the sentence which had any interest in her ear — 
sight, sir ! never saw so poor a sight in all my born days. 
Hearse and two mourning-coaches — common grave — 
just like a pauper. No plumes, no cloaks, and only a 
sprinkling of hatbands; lead coffin certainly, but very 
thin lead, 1 fancy ; for I heard the plumber’s man say 
there wasn’t above five pound to the square foot, and 
Captain Cobb’s coffin had seven. Q,uite a poor kind of a 
dinner, too, for the bearers, — boiled beef and greens, and 
a sad scant of ale after it, Jem Ferriby says. I really 
believe it was the meanest funeral that ever was seen.” 

“ So much the better,” said Miss Prowle. 

Dear me ! why ?” inquired Miss Burr. 

“Because,” answered her amiable aunt, “Mrs. Ful- 
lerton’s burying will correspond with her way of living.” 

“Very true,” said I, affecting to misunderstand her. 
“ There were, as you say, great consistency and pro- 
priety in the arrangements. It would have been the 
worst possible taste to make a great parade at the fune- 
ral of one who had lived with as little parade as Mrs. 
Fullerton. However, if Miss Burr will allow me to differ 
from her, I should say, that mean the funeral was not ; 
plain it loas ; and surely it is better that such should 
always be the case. When the body is about to be yield- 
* ed to the worm, and dust is to be committed to the dust, 
it is more in accordance with Christian feeling that the 
outward signs of woe should be rather marked by 
simplicity and humility, than ihat the minds of the 
bystanders should be disgusted by the tokens of 
pomp, where pomp is of no avail, and fine trappings are 


THE VILLAGE GOSSIPS. 


37 


but the cover of inward rottenness and corruption. I am 
surprised, however, that you, who have heard so much 
on the subject, have not been made aware that all Mrs. 
Fullerton’s old pensioners are provided for, and that she 
has bequeathed £800 for various charitable purposes ; 
so, at least, I heard this morning.” 

“ No doubt Mrs. Fullerton was able to afford it,” said 
Miss Prowle, with asperity. 

“ Mrs. Fullerton,” said I, “ had a life-interest in her 
husband’s estate ; but I should imagine that she had 
very little property of her own to dispose of She was 
loo generous and hospitable to save much from her 
yearly income.” 

“ Hospitable !” exclaimed Miss Prowle ; “ I never saw 
any of her hospitality. Generous ! people should be just 
before they are generous,” 

Part of this ill-natured speech I understood; parti 
did not. I knew that Mrs. Fullerton had been no favour- 
ite with Miss Prowle. A confession which slipped out 
accidentally on a previous occasion had revealed to me 
the feeling, and the cause of it. Miss Prowle had never 
once been asked to dinner at Godsholme ; while her 
neighbour. Miss Kennedy, had been invited three times. 
The sneer, therefore, at the deceased lady’s hospitality 
was intelligible ; but why was her generosity impeached? 
Angry as I felt, I suppose I looked inquisitive. Miss Burr 
hastened to enlighten me. 

“ Perhaps you are not aware, sir, that Miss Clifford is 
left without a sixpence. Poor child, after having been so 
petted, and dressed out, and made—” 

4 * 


38 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


“ Such a 'fool of— you may as well say it at once, 
Sophy.” 

“Yes, aunt; she certainly was made a fool of, and 
terribly spoilt besides. Well, sir, as I was saying, she is 
now to be turned adrift in the world, to shift ibr herself. 
Of course, young Mr. Fullerton cannot do any thing for 
her, for he is a minor ; and, besides, I understand he is 
not over-rich himself. The house at Godsholme is to be 
sold, I believe, or, at any rate, let ; and he is going to 
live with his guardian, Mr. Sykes, at Addlethorpe, in 
Lincolnshire.” 

“No, Sophy; Silvertop, in Northamptonshire.” 

“ Well, well, Addlethorpe, or Silvertop, or some such 
place — one can’t be particular about names.” 

No, thought I, nor about facts either, apparently. So 
I said, “Miss Burr, are you quite sure of this ?” 

“Positive, sir; I have it on the very best authority. 
Miss Howe told me, and she had it from Mrs. Ware, who 
heard it from Mr. Watt, and he must know, for he is in 
Messrs. Badger and Bateman’s office, and Mr. Bateman 
was Mrs. Fullerton’s solicitor.” 

In common with their other acquaintance, I made it 
a rule never to believe above half of what either Miss 
Prowle or Miss Burr told me ; and in the present instance 
a minute report which had come through so many hands 
might easily have caught up considerable inaccuracies 
by the way, without any intentional misrepresentation on 
the part of the narrators. Still I felt that there must be 
a foundation of truth ; and it grieved me to think of Mil- 
dred Clifford’s destitute condition. So I was about to 
make some further inquiries ; but this did not suit Miss 


THE VILLAGE GOSSIPS. 

Prowle’s purpose. Having said enough to make me un- 
comfortable, she had neither any wish to be cross-ex- 
amined, nor to impart to me any further information. 
And lest her companion should have been more commu- 
nicative, she sent her out of the room on some trivial 
errand, and enjoyed the triumph of her own superior 
knowledge. However, I was not to be driven from the 
field without one more effort : “ Do you know,” I asked 
“what is to become of poor Miss Clifford?” 

“ No, indeed, sir, 1 have not troubled myself to inquire ; 
for I cannot say that I feel any peculiar interest about 
her. She seems strong enough and stout enough to 
make her way in the world ; and if she has to rough it 
a little, her betters have done so before her.” 

“ You speak. Miss Prowle, as if she had arrived at a 
time of life in which she would be competent to judge 
and act for herself. She cannot be more than twelve or 
thirteen, I should think j and a child of that age can 
hardly be expected to ‘ make her way in the world.’ ” 

“ Sir, I really know nothing about Miss Clifford, or 
her age, or her expectations ; I only know she is as for- 
ward, pert, ill-mannered a young lady as ever it was my 
misfortune to meet with.” 

“ Indeed ?” I exclaimed ; “ I am surprised to hear it. 
But why should you say so ?” 

“ Oh, she gives herself as many airs as if she were a 
duchess. It is not a month ago since I saw her pass 
that window, and invited her into the house ; and, will 
you believe it ? she actually told me she couldn’t do so 
without Mrs. Fullerton’s leave. I wonder whether she 
thought I should poison her ! Well, sir, having a ques- 


40 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


lion or two to put to her, in spite of her rudeness, I went 
out into the street, and only just inquired whether she 
had heard Mrs. Fullerton say why Major Crabley set off 
for London in such a hurry? Upon which she stared 
me full in the face, and exclaimed, ‘ O dear no, ma’am ; 
Mrs. Fullerton told me (when I asked her what you bade 
me before) to remember that we have nothing to do with 
other people’s affairs j and that no gossip can be a good 
neighbour or a good Christian. So I never ask about 
such things.’ Pretty well that, wasn’t it, sir ? — a little 
pert chit !” 

“Indeed,” said I, “I can only love the poor child’s 
honesty and truth, and her simple manner of doing what 
she had been bidden, and of keeping in mind the princi- 
ples she had been taught. Had she been a few years 
older, she would probably not have expressed herself in 
such plain terms. But really I can see nothing offensive 
in what she said ; and, excuse me. Miss Prowle, but I 
must make the remark — why should it offend you, unless 
you had a monitor within which told you that you are 
yourself not altogether blameless on this score ? I do not 
wish to revert to past conversations on this subject, for I 
see it annoys you ; but, believe me, you would be a far 
happier person while you live, and will lie down at last 
to die with far more peace of mind, if you would bring 
yourself to judge less harshly of others, and more se- 
verely of yourself.” 

“ Sir, you will permit me to judge for myself what is 
best for my own happiness. When I need your advice, 
I will ask for it,” exclaimed Miss Prowle, with a face pale 
with anger, and in a tone which showed me that any 


THE VILLAGE GOSSIPS. 


41 


attempt to prolong the discussion would be hopeless. 
So, after a few words of conciliation and kindness, I took 
my leave. 

As I left the house, I could not but feel that I had not 
only failed in being of any service to Miss Prowle herself, 
but had increased her dislike to Mildred Clifford. I had 
certainly spoken too bluntly. However, what was done 
could not be undone; and, with the thought of these 
rumoured changes at Godsholme, and of the sorrows of 
its bereaved inhabitants foremost in my mind, I deter- 
mined to avail myself of the privileges of an old friend, 
and therefore shaped my course at once towards that 
venerable mansion. 





r 


/* 










( 




2tj)e i^»ncl)eto. 

How for God’s altar may that arm be bold 
Where cleaves the rust of sacrilege of old ? 

Oh, would my country once believe, 

But once her contrite bosom heave, 

And but in wish or vow restore 
But one fair shrine despoil’d of yore ! 

How would the windows of th’ approving sky 
Shower down the dews on high ! 

Arm’d Levites then, within the temple-dome, 

Might we the foe await, nor yet profane God’s home. 

I/yra ^postolica* 





n 




i% 



\ 


I 






f 



CHAPTER III. 

Between eight and nine hundred years have elapsed 
since Wulfric, earl of Mercia, obtained permission from 
King Ethelred the Unready, to found an abbey, which 
will be sufficiently designated for my present purpose as 
that of St. Modwen, the virgin to whose pious memory 
it was dedicated. On this monastery the wealthy Saxon 
conferred the whole of his broad lands, (consisting of 
estates of more or less value in near fifty places.) with 
the single exception of his paternal property at Arderne, 
which he bequeathed to his infant daughter for her life. 
But those were rude and dangerous days for defenceless, 
unprotected females ; and the Lady Adelgiva, (herself 
scarcely arrived at womanhood, when her father fell in 
fight with the Danes at the great battle of Ipswich,) was 
glad to put herself under the protection of holy Church, 
and embrace a monastic life. Accordingly she surrendered 
her lands at Arderne to the abbot of St. Modwen’s, upon 
condition that a mynchery (as the Saxon nunneries were 
called) should be forthwith erected on a holme, or 
river-island, formed near the junction of the Trent with 
one of its tributaries. The Mynchery of Godsholme, 
5 


46 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


thus founded, (and of which the Lady Adelgiva herself 
was tlie first superior,) continued to exist for five hun- 
dred years ; and like Polesworth, (of which St. Modwen 
herself was foundress,) Godstow, and many others of 
less note, was a blessing and honour to the neighbour- 
hood, and remarkable for its charity, purity, and strict 
rule. Hither most of the daughters of the gentry of the 
country were sent for their education ; and for ages the 
fame of the holy sisters as skilful mediciners was such, 
that their house was the continual resort (and it was sel- 
dom resorted to in vain) of the poor impotent folk for 
many a mile round. But neither its piety nor its useful- 
ness availed it, when those with who nr it had to do in 
after-times were bent on its destruction. 

At the dissolution of monasteries. King Henry VIII. 
happening one day to play at dice with the Lord Longdon, 
and staking a hundred pounds against it, lost the fair abbey 
of St. Modwen’s and all its lands, at a single cast “ I 
will not,” says old Fuller, while reciting a similar deed ol* 
atrocious sacrilege, (and there were many such,) “I will 
not heighten the guilt of this act, equal to that which 
cast lots on Christ’s garment ; but sure it is no sin to say 
that such things deserved more serious and deliberate 
disposal.”* 

Of course the humble nunnery of Godsholme shared 
the fate of the noble abbey with which it was connected. 
Its helpless inhabitants were driven forth from their 
ancient possession ; great part of the dwelling-house 
and its appurtenances were pulled down, and the property 

* Fuller’s Church History, p. 337. 


THE MYNCHERY. 


47 


generally, after changing owners again and again, at 
length came into the hands of the Fullerton 'family, who 
had now possessed it for three generations. 

Without any pretence to beauty of architectural de 
tail, the mansion of Godsholme is exceedingly venerable 
and picturesque in its appearance. It is a low, straggling 
edifice of gray stone, with a small quadrangle in the 
centre, and a high-roofed chapel, now (in the true spirit 
of the times) used as a barn, at one extremity of the 
building. Windows of all imaginable shapes, and with 
all manner of irregularity as to height and disposition, 
seem scattered at random along the walls ; here a row 
of narrow lancet-shaped apertures, and there a light and 
graceful oriel, contrasting with square-headed windows, 
and the heavy transoms and mullions of a later style. 
In short, the whole structure presents a medley of design, 
in which each successive builder seems to have con- 
sulted his own fancy, without any reference to the 
labours of his predecessors ; and the consequence is, that 
samples may be found in it of almost every fashion of ar- 
chitecture which has prevailed from the fourteenth century 
to the days of James I., when the mansion had appa- 
rently received its last alterations. Still, as I have said, 
the general effect is very striking ; and, standing as it 
does at the extremity of a triple avenue of lofty lime- 
trees, it has that air of calm seclusion, and happiness, and 
peace, which characterizes so many of our old English 
halls, and which ought to inspire both those who dwell in 
them, and those who look upon them, with feelings of 
deep and humble thankfulness for the years of security 
and domestic enjoyment, undisturbed by hostile invasion 


48 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


or the horrors of civil war, with which it has pleased 
God to bless the homes of our favoured land. 

With many painful feelings I approached the mansion 
where, in days gone by, I had experienced unvaried 
kindness and hospitality, and where I could now only 
expect to find myself a witness of affliction, which, for the 
present at least, could scarce be alleviated. On my 
admission into the house, I was ushered by an old ser- 
vant, who seemed bowed down with sorrow, into the 
library, — a dimly -lighted room, wainscoted with dark oak 
panelling in the Elizabethan style, and ornamented 
with a lofty chimney-piece, the cumbrous carved work of 
which extended from the floor to the ceiling, exhibiting tier 
upon tier of allegorical devices in bas-relief, among which 
the labours of Hercules and Samson were set side by side, 
and Jewish worthies and the heroes of heathen mythology 
seemed disputing for the palm of victory. Here I found 
the two youthful mourners, and Mr. Sykes, the guardian 
and maternal uncle of Mark Fullerton. I need not say 
that the meeting was a distressing one. In spite of their 
eflbrts at composure, tear alter tear ran down the poor 
children’s cheeks ; and amid their sobs, I could only 
gather from a few incoherent words that they were glad to 
see an old friend ; that they were very thankful to me for 
coming ; that it was the thing they most wished for, 
—for they knew that she liked them to be with me. 
Their loss was as yet too recent for them to be calm : 
and one burst of grief seemed to follow another involun- 
tarily. Such comfort and expressions of kind sympathy 
as I could give, I offered them. I bade them sorrow not 
as those which have no hope ; and I reminded them, 


THE MYNCHERY, 


49 


that in complete submission and resignation to the will 
of our heavenly Father, they would best show their 
desire to please Him, and that the lessons of piety which 
their deceased friend had taught them had not been in- 
stilled in vain. Then feeling that a lengthened visit 
was not desirable, I took my leave, expressing an intention 
of calling again in a few days, and regretting in my own 
mind that I had not had the opportunity of ascertaining 
the truth of Miss Burr’s statement with respect to Mildred 
Clifford. However, as I was quitting the room, Mr. Sykes 
followed me, and proposed to accompany me through 
the grounds on my way home. He knew, he kindly said, 
that his poor sister had a high opinion of my judgment j 
and he had already seen how sincere an interest I took 
in her afflicted family. ‘H find myself,” he continued, “ in 
some respects almost a stranger here ; and there are points 
on which I shall be glad to avail myself of your local 
knowledge, and on which, from motives of delicacy, I can 
hardly consult the worthy vicar of Arderne, our mutual 
friend, W alter Long.” 

I answered, that of course I should have sincere 
pleasure in being of any service in my power. 

Mr. Sykes then proceeded to say, that after having 
given the subject his best consideration, he had'arrived at 
the conclusion that it would be best for his nephew’s 
interest that the Mynchery should be let for the next six 
years — the interval which would elapse before Mark 
should obtain his majority; and that meanwhile he should 
take up his abode with him in Northamptonshire. “You 
are aware,” added Mr. Sykes, “ of the fortunate arrange- 
ment which has been made with respect to Mildred ?” 

5 * 


50 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


‘‘No,” said I, “ I am not.” 

“ The poor little girl, you know, is an orphan,” replied 
my companion, “ and has hardly a relation in the world, 
I believe, — certainly none who is likely to propose un- 
dertaking the charge of her. My sister, who ever thought 
of others more than of herself, felt this so acutely on her 
death-bed, that I believe she was more weighed down 
with it than with the intensity of her own sufferings. 
However, the day before she died, it was settled that 
Mildred is to have a home at the vicarage of’ Arderne ; 
and Mrs. Long (whom to know is to love) has under- 
taken the responsibility of her education. The recent loss 
of their only daughter seems to make our friends at the 
vicarage very anxious for the little girl’s society ; so that I 
feel sure that Mildred will receive the kindest treatment ; 
and that the scheme is better than that which I proposed, 
namely, that she should live at Silverdale with me. I 
believe a bachelor’s house has many disadvantages. By 
the by,” continued Mr. Sykes, “ I may as well inform 
you that my sister was enabled to leave her about £200 
a year ; so that she will be in pretty comfortable circum- 
stances.” 

I cordially thanked Mr. Sykes for such pleasing infor- 
mation, (which was diametrically opposite to what I had 
been told by Miss Burr, and afforded a fair test of a gos- 
sip’s accuracy ;) and after some further conversation on 
points to which Mr. Sykes had previously alluded, but 
which have no connection with my present narrative, we 
parted. 

In the course of the next month I was not unfrequently 
at Godsholme, and had the satisfaction of seeing the in- 


THE MYNCHERY. 


51 


habitants of the Mynchery restored to calmness at least, 
if not to cheerfulness. The time, however, was now draw- 
ing nigh when Mark and Mildred were to be exposed to 
new trials, in leaving the home of their childhood, and in 
their separation from each other. “ Poor things,” said 
Mr. Sykes to me one day, as he stood watching them 
from the terrace, with tears in his eyes, — “ Poor things ! 
my heart aches whenever I think of their being parted. I 
never saw beings more tenderly attached to one another. 
What a pity,” he continued, making an effort to smile as 
he said it, — “ what a pity they are not a little older ! I 
should think Mark might have had a wife for the asking ; 
and I might have been spared the proverbial cares and 
anxieties of a guardian !” 

“Yes,” said I, chiming in with my companion’s obser- 
vation, “ artd / should not be dreading the loss of my 
good friends at Godsholme. And yet,” I added, after a 
pause, “ I can well imagine that much good to both may 
result from this separation. I have sometimes thought 
that there are faults in Mark’s character, which a greater 
intercourse with those of his own age and sex would prob- 
ably eradicate.” 

“I quite agree with you,” observed Mr. Sykes; “he 
is something self-willed and over-confident. His mind is 
not very strong ; or, at least, it wants discipline. Weak- 
ish, I should say ; but as kind a heart as ever lad pos- 
sessed.” , 

“ He is full of deep, tender, sensitive feeling,” I re- 
plied ; “he is generous and openhearted ; but he has no 
steadiness, is easily excited, and then acts upon impulse 
rather than upon principle.” 


52 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


“ Ay, ay,” said Mr. Sykes; “not much ballast ; soon 
run away with. I do believe that that little quiet Mildred 
is very much his superior in many things.” 

“ He evidently thinks so,” answered I ; “ for he al- 
ways goes to her in a difficulty, — at least, if he gives him- 
self time for reflection.” 

“Yes; I see how it will be: he must certainly marry 
her, and make her head serve for them both,” said the 
old man, laughing. 

“ Time enough lo think of that,” I replied ; “ or rather, 
better not to think of such things at all : if such a thing 
fell out naturally, why so much the better : but it does 
more harm than good to put these sort of thoughts into 
young people’s heads.” 

“Very true, very true, Mr. Warlingham; I was an 
old fool for saying such a thing; but I have a sad trick 
of building castles in the air, and I was not sorry to turn 
my thoughts from the present to the future. I hate the 
prospect of strangers occupying this place.” 

Mr. Sykes paused for a moment ; and as if glad of an 
opportunity of changing the subject of which he had been 
recently speaking, he looked up at the ivy-clad walls of 
the Mynchery, and then exclaimed, “ How singular has 
been the fate of this edifice from the hour in which the 
old nuns were turned adrift into the world, to the present 
time ! To what changes and vicissitudes has it been 
exposed ! One family has followed another in the pos- 
session of it ; and all have been unfortunate. I believe 
it has never gone down in direct succession. Some of 
its owners have died childless, some intestate, some have 
been ruined ; none have continued here for more than a 


THE MYNCHERY. 


53 


single generation till the Fullertons bought it. Its two 
first possessors in that family never lived here ; and 
though my late brother and sister resided constantly, and 
took the greatest delight in restoring and adorning it, 
their sojourn has been comparatively short, both have 
found an early grave ; and now the old nunnery is to 
pass once more (though only for a time) into the hands 
of strangers.” 

“Many instances, I believe,” said I, “might be quoted, 
in which Providence has seemed to resent the applica- 
tion of lands to secular uses, which were originally grant- 
ed or bequeathed for pious ones. Sir Henry Spelman, 
in his ‘ History and Fate of Sacrilege,’* mentions, that 

* “ About the year, I suppose, 1615 or 1616, I described 
with a pair of compasses in the map of Norfolk a circle of 
twelve miles, the semi-diameter according to the scale there- 
of, placing the centre about twenty-four, the chief seat of the 
Yelvertons within this circle and the borders of it; I enclos- 
ed the mansion-houses of about twenty-four families of gen- 
tlemen, and the site of as many monasteries, all standing to- 
gether at the time of the dissolution ; and T then noted that 
the gentlemen’s seats continued at that day in their own 
families and names, but the monateries had flung out their 
owners, with their names and families (all of them save two) 
thrice at least, and some of them four, or five, or six times, 
not only by fail of issue, or ordinary sale, but very often by 
grievous accident and misfortunes. I observe yet further, 
that though the seats of these monasteries were in the fattest 
and choicest places of all that part of the country, (for our 
ancestors offered^ like Mel^ the best unto God,) yet it hath 
not happened that any of them, to my knowledge, or any 


54 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


on comparing (about the year 1616, that is, within a 
hundred years after the Reformation) the mansion- 

other in all this country, hath been the permanent habitation 
of any family of note ; but like desolate places, left to farm- 
ers and husbandmen, no man almost adventuring to build or 
dwell upon them for dread of infelicity that pursueth them. 

“ Let me here report what hath been related to me from 
the mouth of Sir Clement Edmonds, lately a clerk of his Ma- 
jesty’s counsel, that did take his knowledge from the coun- 
cil-books : viz., that in the beginning of Queen Mary’s reign 
the Parliament was not willing to restore popery, and the 
supremacy to the pope, unless they might be suffered to re- 
tain the lands which were lately taken from the monasteries 
This resolution was signified to Rome. Whereto the pope 
gave answer, that for the lands belonging to the religious 
houses he would dispense for retaining of them ; but for the 
situation of the houses, churches, and such consecrated 
ground, there could be no alienation thereof to profane uses. 
Whereupon those that enjoyed them did not inhabit or build 
upon the houses, but forsook them for many years, till, in 
the time of Queen Elizabeth, a great plague happening, the 
poor people betook themselves into the remainder of the 
houses, and finding many good rooms, began to settle there ; 
till, at length, they were put out by them to whom the grant 
of the leases and lands were made. 

“ We see hereby how fearful they were, long after the 
dissolution, to meddle with places consecrated to God, 
(though perverted to superstitious uses,) when as yet they 
had no experience what the success would be. Let them, 
therefore, that shall read this our collection following, con- 
sider of it as they shall see cause. I urge nothing, as not 
meddling with the secret judgments of Almighty God ; but 


THE MYNCHERY. 


55 

houses of twenty-four families of gentlemen in Norfolk, 
with as many monasteries, all standing together at the 
dissolution, and all lying within a ring of twelve miles 
the semi-diameter, he found the former still possessed by 
the lineal descendants of their former occupants in every 
instance ; whilst the latter, with two exceptions only, had 
flung out their owners again and again, some six times 
over, none less than three, through sale, through default 
of issue, and very often through great and grievous dis- 
asters. Old Erdeswick likewise, in his ‘History of Staf- 
Ibrdshire,’* presents us with a no less striking series of 

relate rem gestam only as I have privately gotten notice of 
it, and observed, living in these parts all my life, and endea- 
vouring faithfully to understand the truth : yet, no doubt, 
many things may have been mistaken by those who related 
them unto me ; and therefore I desire, that wheresoever it 
so falleth out, my credit may not be engaged for it.” — S pel- 
man’s History of Sacrilege^ chap. viii. 

* The passage referred to occurs in a letter from Sir Simon 
Degge to Dugdale, and is as follows : — 

“ ’Tis no wonder to see the eagle’s nest on fire, that steals 
flesh from the altar for her young ones. ... I will give you 
a little taste of the success these lands have had in Stafford- 
shire. Ahhey Hilton^ that was given to Sir Edward Aston, 
was, with much more, sold by his son ; and where this issue 
will stay, God knows. You know how near to an end it 
hath brought that family; and, as I told Mr. Hugh Sneyd, I 
found it was a worm in his estate, for it was travelling apace. 
De la Cresse was given to the Bagnals ; which, like a mush- 
room, rose on a sudden, and vanished as soon in the first 
gradation. Anthony Rudyard has the site; and, as I take it, 


56 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


similar facts ; and others* have traced to violent ends 
many of those men whose hands were most defiled with 

he is issueless. Jolley has Le.cke^ and some other things ; 
how long it is like to stay there, God knows. Calwich is next 
in order, bought by Sir R. Fleetwood’s grandfather ; and 
how unhappily it prospered with the grandson you have 
seen. Rocester was granted to Thomas Trentham ; now ’tis 
got into a strange family, where it is believed it will not stay 
half another age. Croxton is next, which one of the Fol- 
jambes had, and died a beggar in a barn, after he had sold it 
to Sergeant Harris, upon whose son’s death it came into a 
strange family. Tuibury was old Mr. Cavendish’s, who died 
issueless ; that still continues in his name. So doth Burton 
(in another family) ; but the son of him that purchased it 
from the crown was attainted of treason. The father of this 
Lord Paget repurchased it at £700 a year rent; and this has 
much wasted his estate, nobody knows how. Canwell, you 
know, has changed his master twice in our time. Trentham 
hath had two successive owners, both like to die issueless. 
How Stone hath prospered both in the Colliers’ and Comp- 
tons’ hands, you have seen. Blythhury hath sped no better ; 
Sir Thomas has stayed longest, but the present owner most 
unfortunate. To conclude, ’tis my observation that the 
owners become bankrupts and sell, or else die without male 
issue, whereby their memories perish. I wish no better 
success to the sacrilegious purchaser of this age,” (that of the 
civil wars;) “ and sure the same God that has been thus just 
in His own cause, neither slumbereth nor sleepeth, but will 
send the same vengeance after it ; for lands once given Deo 
et sanctcB Ecclesice, to God and holy Church, I know no 
human power that can justly alienate” 

“ God’s exemplary hand ought to be heeded in the sig- 


THE MYNCHERY. 


57 


sacrilege. Of course we must not presume to forestall 
the righteous judgment of God, and say that they were 
sinners above all men who dwelt in England in those 
days ; we cannot speak with too much caution and hu- 
mility on such matters ; but be it superstition, or be it 
not, I honestly confess to you that I can never read these 
details without awe, and without exclaiming to myself, 
‘ There is something in this which should make us pause 
and reflect, ere we sanction any thing which may border 
on sacrilege.’ There is a warning here which we shall 
do well to attend to, in days when inclination, at least, 
does not seem to be wanting to induce a repetition of 
the crime. ‘ He that hath ears to hear, let him hear !’ ” 

“You have quoted your instances,” replied Mr. Sykes; 
but would it not be easy to take the other side of the 
question, and adduce a list of great families with whom 
such property has continued to flourish ? The Russells, 
the Howards, the Seymours, the Thynnes, and many 
others, were all enriched by abbey-lands, which their 
descendants possess at this day.” 

“ This is perfectly true,” said I ; “ and certainly when 
I remember how Longleat served as a refuge to good 

nal fatality of such as by the cardinal were employed in this 
service. Five they were in number; two whereof challeng- 
ing the field of each other, one was slain, and the other 
hanged for it. A third, throwing himself headlong into a 
well, perished wilfully. A fourth, formerly wealthy, grew 
so poor, that he begged his bread. The fifth, Dr. Allen, one 
of especial note, afterwards archbishop of Dublin, was slain 
in Ireland. And what became of Wolsey himself is notori- 
ously known.” — Fuller’s Church History^ p. 306. 

6 


58 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


Bishop Ken, I am constrained to ask myself, Did not He 
who sent such a prophet to lodge there, send with it His 
blessing to the charitable owner? Still f am inclined to 
look on these cases as rather forming the exception than 
the rule.” 

“ There is another thing to be considered,” remarked 
Mr. Sykes. “ Sir Henry Spelman speaks of monasteries ; 
monastic lands are not properly CAwrcA-lands, are they?”* 

“No,” said I ; “monasteries were originally lay soci- 
eties. It would have been well if they had not too often 
themselves invaded the portion of the Church, impropri- 
ating tithes, and leaving the villages destitute of priests 
and means of instruction.” 

“ Then if monasteries were lay societies, where was 
the harm of the state interfering with their property ?” 

“ There was no harm,” I answered. “ Every well- 
governed state must have a moral right to interfere with 
private property in certain cases : with corporate property 
in many more. The monasteries were corporations.f, 
If they had abused their trust, the state had a right to 
interfere ; as it has in every case with corporations or 
trustees who abuse their trust. The state had a right to 
interfere ; whether it had a right to forfeit and alienate, 
is a very different question.” 

“ With respect to the dissolution of monasteries, 
therefore,” said Mr. Sykes, “ the wrong was, not in the 
act itself, but in the motive and manner of it ?” 

* All that seems to stand on Divine right is the property 
ol tithes ; therefore the Tithe Commutation Act seems worse 
in principle than the suppression of the abbeys. 

t See Hooker, Eccl. Pol. VII. xxiv. 23. 


THE MYNCHERY. 


59 


“Just SO. The monasteries were institutions m the 
Church, but scarcely of it; faulty in their original sys- 
tem, (for the vow and many other things cannot be de- 
fended ;) opposed to the bishop’s rightful authority ; and 
confessedly, at the time of their dissolution, broken in their 
discipline, and outliving the use for which they were de- 
signed. The wTong, therefore, was not in dissolving 
them, but, as you say, in the motive and in the manner; 
in destroying them without satisfaction to the Church of 
England, and without her consent; and in destroying 
more precious things with them, churches and libraries, 
schools and hospitals.” 

“ Certainly,” remarked my companion, with a smile ; 
“ bluff King Hal was something over-liberal in disposing 
of what was not his to give, when he lost the abbey of 
St. Modwen’s in a game at chuck-farthing ; but surely 
you do not mean to say that the dissolution was any thing 
but an advantage to this kingdom? Is not Christ 
Church, Oxford, a better foundation for the country than 
the abbey of Oseney? Trinity College than Wroxton 
Abbey ? or Thomas Sutton’s new foundation of the Char- 
ter-house, than the old Carthusian priory ?” 

“ Unquestionably,” I answered. “ In such instances, 
(and blessed be God, who bringeth good out of evil, there 
are many such,) there is nothing to be deplored. The 
Church and nation have had a great gain ; and that gain 
would have been further increased, had not so much 
avarice and selfish rapacity been mixed up with the work 
of suppression.” 

“ Why, to be sure, we have pretty strong proofs that 
other feelings besides the pure love of reforming what 


60 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


was amiss animated the breasts of some of the most 
strenuous advocates of the dissolution.” 

“Yes, alas!” I replied; “it could hardly be other- 
wise while human nature is what it is — full of greediness 
and self-interest. The monastic institutions were bad 
enough, no doubt ; but the cry against them would hardly 
have been so loud, if there had been no anticipations of 
future plunder. Supposing the zeal for reformation was 
wholly pure and disinterested, how came it that the mon- 
asteries had no chance given them of amending what was 
amiss ? or (if that was not to be looked for in the general 
laxity of their discipline) why were they not put under 
strict and vigilant management; scandalous offenders 
punished, or ejected without mercy ; needless expenses 
cut down ; literature, education, charity extended 1 But, 
above all, since it is allowed on all hands that against 
some of these establishments no charges could be brought 
— why were they involved in one common fate, and con- 
demned to dissolution like the rest ?” 

“ The current of popular feeling must have been very 
strong against the monastic bodies,” said Mr. Sykes, “ or 
such a sweeping measure never would have been ven- 
tured upon.” 

“We all know,” said I, “that it is no very difficult 
matter for a few resolute, persevering men to direct the 
feelings of the populace towards the accomplishment of 
any evil object. But that which roused, not only the pop- 
ular feeling, but much of the religious feeling of the 
country against the church at the time alluded to, was the 
spirit of persecution which too many great churchmen 
(Archbishops Arundel and Courtney, for instance) had 


THE MYNCHERY. 


61 


shown. For this the judgment came in whirlwind. Yet, 
after all, the movement did not begin with the populace ; 
and their sympathies were not rarely on the other side of 
the question. The insurgents in Lincolnshire, and the 
hundred thousand rebels who formed ‘ the Pilgrimage of 
Grace.’ were, for the most part, men of humble rank ; and, 
however misguided -they may have been, they rose in 
arms, not for purposes of plunder, but for replacing the 
monks and nuns in those monasteries which had been 
suppressed, but where they and their fathers had found 
hospitality, charity, and piety. And, to come nearer 
home, the legend hereabouts is, that when the Lord Long- 
don look possession of this nunnery, and proposed to pull 
down yonder belfry, he was fain to forego his labour, for 
no workmen could be found to undertake the sacrilegious 
task.”* 

“ They were not so scrupulous afterwards,” said Mr. 
Sykes. 

“ No,” I replied ; “but the fact of such unwillingness 
existing is a proof that, in the eyes of the commonalty 
generally, the monasteries were not such nests of hornets 
as we Protestants are so apt to imagine ; and no doubt 
Hugh Latimer expressed the wish of the right-minded 
part of his countrymen, when, in his vain intercession for 
the priory of Malvern, he entreated that at least two or 
three such establishments might be continued in every 
shire, ‘not in monkery, but converted to purposes of 
preaching, study, and prayer.’ ” 

* A similar circumstance is said to have occurred when 
the Chancellor Audley contemplated the destruction of the 
priory, church, and steeple of Christchurch, Aldgate. 

6 * 


62 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


“Well, good and bad have been swept away,” said 
Mr. Sykes ; “ and I hardly regret it, for we have thereby 
got rid of much profligacy and superstition.” 

“It may be so,” I observed in rejoinder; “but have 
we not increased these evils elsewhere, and dispossessed 
ourselves of the very weapons which might have been 
turned against them ? What think you of the profligacy 
of monasteries, as compared with that of our manufac- 
turing districts ? Where, now the monasteries are dis- 
solved, are we to find means of Christianizing the crowd- 
ed alleys of our great commercial towns, — Manchester, 
Birmingham, and so forth? The clergy do all they can, 
but what can they do with their present limited numbers 
for a population of above thirteen millions?” 

“I fear, Mr. Warlingham, that these are questions 
more easily asked than answered. It appears but too 
evident that we are at this moment paying the penalty of 
our forefathers’ crime. God in His mercy grant that that 
crime to which they familiarized us may not be taken in 
our times as a precedent, and in its sure results turn this 
land once more into an Aceldama of anarchy, confusion, 
and blood !” 

“ Indeed, my dear sir,” I replied. “ we have much need 
to make such a prayer. And our generation is not like 
to pass away without some portion at least of these ter- 
rible judgments befalling us, unless we steadily look our 
evils in the face, for the purpose of amending them. Per- 
haps it is not too much to say, that the sacrilegious, ir- 
reverential spirit which was the worst feature of the Re- 
formation, has never been cast out since; but seems, on 
the contrary, to have identified itself with all our modes 


THE MYNCHERY. 


63 


of thought and feeling, and to have hardened our hearts, 
and made us unwilling to devote more than a most mea- 
gre portion of our superfluities to God’s service.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Sykes, “I have always thought with 
disgust and sorrow of the shameful pillage of churches, of 
noble libraries,* and of such-like institutions, which was the 
accompaniment of the Reformation. Such things are bad 
enough under any circumstances, but a thousand times 
worse when committed under the cloak of holiness and zeal.” 

“ To see churches pulled down or rifled, the plate 
swept off the altar, the holy furniture converted to com- 
mon use, was a sight that must have shocked all pious 
minds in that day ; and I should think that the fineness of 
our drawing-rooms and bed-chambers, and the dank and 
dismal poverty of our churches, can hardly fail to raise up 
similar feelings in minds of a like temper in our own. 
There is no great air of devotion in all this ; nothing very 
primitive, nothing very easily reconcilable with the old 
ways of Christians.”! 

“No doubt we are too luxurious and self-indulgent, 
Mr. Warlingham ; but when you say that we only devote 
a meagre portion of our superfluities to God’s service, it 
appears to me that you hardly view the matter in a fair 
light. Think what subscription-lists for charitable puposes 
are to be seen in the newspapers of almost every day.” 

“ I would rather think of those which do not appear 
in the newspapers ; of the alms offered to God, where 
the left hand knoweth not what the right doeth.” 

“Well, well, Mr. Warlingham, then take another 

* See Fuller’s Church History, p. 335. 
t See Collier, vol. ii. p. 163. 


64 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


test : look at the new churches. Travel where you will, 
you are sure to find them ; they seem to spring up like 
mushrooms.” 

“ And,” said I, “ are destined, I fear, many of them, 
to a mushroom duration. Cheapness instead of cost; 
‘ how little’ instead of ‘ how much warmth, snugness, 
instead of strength, height, depth, grandeur of design. 
These are modern principles of church-building, and the 
fruits are manifest : wood painted and sanded instead of 
stone ; deal instead of oak ; red curtains in lieu of stained 
glass ; stucco for marble ; ornaments of pressed putty 
instead of solid carvings ; earthenware fonts ; Sheffield 
plate chalices ; pulpits twenty feet high, blocking out the 
altar from the view of the congregation ! However, 
lath and plaster though they be, I do not undervalue the 
motives of those who have built our modern churches. 
Half a loaf is better than no bread. Nay, I am hardly 
disposed to quarrel with the lath and plaster. By the 
time these hideous unsubstantial edifices are ruinous, 
God may have put it into the hearts of another genera- 
tion to build churches more worthy of the name of Him 
to whom they are builded, than those which, as you truly 
say, are springing up like mushrooms. I do not under- 
value the piety of modern church-builders ; but if their 
number is to be taken as a proof of the liberal spirit of the 
times, I must honestly confess that in proportion to our 
means we have scarcely yet done any thing.” 

“ Will this opinion,” asked Mr. Sykes, “ be borne out 
by facts ?” 

“ I will adduce one that I should think would be all- 
sufficient. The dioceses of Chester, London, and Lichfield 


THE MYNCHERir. 


65 


contain a population of 4,650,000 souls, and 1800 bene- 
fices :* that is, these three dioceses contain 250,000 souls 
more than the whole of England in 1588 ;f yet that 
whereas our ancestors allotted 12,300 churches to 4,400,- 
000,1 we only grant 1800 churches to 4,650,000 ; and yet 
the wealth of this country is five, ay, probably ten times 
greater now than it was in the reign of queen Elizabeth.” 

“I admit,” replied my companion, “that you have 
made out your case. Our population 7nust become hea- 
then, unless we can build churches adequate to its spirit- 
ual necessities. And when the churches are built, where 
are we to find clergy ?” 

“ Exactly,” said I ; “ where are we to find clergy ? 
If the monasteries, instead of being swept away, had 
been reformed, — had been reserved for persons not tied 
by monastic vows, but who, satisfied to endure hardness, 
and content with poverty, were ready from the pure love 
of God to devote themselves to ‘preaching, study, and 
prayer,’ — our large towns would have been supplied, — not 
as now with some three or four overburdened clergy- 
men, — but with a numerous body of men, ready, under 
episcopal guidance, to do the work of apostles and evan- 

* According to the census of 1831 — 



Population. 

Benefices. 

Chester . . 

.. . 1,883,958 

— 616 

London . . 

. . 1,722,685 

— 577 

Lichfield . . 

. . 1,045,481 

— 623 

Total . . 

. . 4,652,124 

1816 


t Hallam’s Const. Hist. chap. 1. 
t Grafton’s Chronicle, 1570. 


66 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


gelists to multitudes (the expression is not too strong) 
now lying in darkness and in the shadow of death.” 

“And the nunneries — how' would you have turned 
them to account ?” inquired Mr. Sykes. 

“ I know not why they might not (under the same 
vigilant superintendence) have been made, as of old, 
most efficient schools and seminaries for religious and 
useful learning ; why ‘ sisters of charity’ might not have 
been preserved among us to do effectually and systemati- 
cally what is now but in part accomplished by district- 
visiting. I know not why such establishments might not, 
under proper care and precaution, have afforded a safe and 
happy asylum to many unprotected women in narrow 
circumstances, who are now doomed to struggle in vain 
with poverty and other difficulties.” 

“You have made me think better of monasteries and 
nunneries than I have hitherto been disposed to do, Mr. 
Warlingham.” 

“ I am not sorry,” said I ; “ but let me not be misun- 
derstood. Of course, I do not mean to say that there 
were not many crying evils, many shocking instances of 
vice and immorality among the suppressed monasteries. 
All I would assert is, that those evils are not of necessity 
so bound up with every portion of the monastic system, 
as that no modification of it could be restored with ad- 
vantage. I believe, for the reasons and under the re- 
strictions to which I have alluded, that it might ; and one 
further suggestion in favour of it, which a college-life has 
taught me, I cannot refrain from adding, which is this, 
that the diligent observance of daily service among them 
might be the means, in God’s hand, of restoring it else- 


THE MYNCHERY. 


67 


where, and in bringing back habits of devotion which I 
fear have almost passed away. It is said that after that 
grim Lord Longdon harried the nuns of Godsholme from 
their ancient abode, it was still their habit to return at 
midnight and celebrate the divine offices in the dese- 
crated chapel. Through summer’s heat and winter’s 
cold they maintained the pious practice ; and thirty years 
passed away before the last surviving sister of the vene- 
rable band was found dead in the attitude of prayer at 
the foot of that altar where, half a century before, she 
had devoted herself to God. When our time of trial 
comes, (and apparently it is hard at hand,) may we be 
found as patient, as constant, as faithful !” 

Thus ended my lengthened conversation with Mr. 
Sykes ; and I saw him but once more, before, with mu- 
tual regret, we bade each other adieu, and taking its 
youthful owner with him, he removed from the Mynchery 
of Godsholme. 





I 


1 


/ 


V 

> 



k 


/ 


(Kfjance anti ©ijanfle. 

A V'ay these winged years have flown, 

To join the mass of ages gone ; 

And though deep mark’d, like all below, 

With chequer’d shades of joy and woe ; 

Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, 

Fever’d the progress of these years. 

Yet now, days, weeks, and months, but seem 
The recollection of a dream. 

So still we glide down to the sea 
Of fathomless eternity. 

Waltir Scott. 


1 







CHAPTER IV. 


“Years,” it has been beautifully said, “rush by us 
like the wind. We see not whence the eddy comes, nor 
whitherward it is tending; and we seem ourselves to 
witness their flight without a sense that we are changed; 
and yet time is beguiling man of his strength, as the 
winds rob the woods of their foliage.” 

The six years during which the Mynchery was in the 
hands of strangers soon passed away ; their lapse, as I 
look back upon it, seems scarce longer than the tale 
which I am about to tell of the events that marked their 
chequered course. Of the persons who have been in- 
troduced to the reader in preceding chapters, there was 
not one but might, at the commencement of that period, 
have reasonably anticipated witnessing its termination. 
And, as regards myself, I well remember that I had so 
far indulged my day-dreams as to allow myself to think 
that we should all probably meet again under happier 
auspices ; and that the young heir of Godsholme, return- 
ing to his father’s house, and surrounded by the friends 
of his childhood, would make it once more the scene of 
domestic happiness and cheerful hospitality. 


72 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


Never were visions more speedily and completely dis- 
sipated. Within a year after the decease of Mrs. Ful- 
lerton, Mr. Long, the vicar of Arderne, had been com- 
mitted to the dust in the same churchyard ; and the good 
pastor’s death was speedily followed by that of Mr. Sykes. 
Upon the latter event, Mark Fullerton was placed under 
the guardianship of his sole surviving relative, Mr. Ful- 
lerton Knewstubs; while Mildred Clifford, still continu- 
ing under the maternal care of Walter Long’s widow, 
removed with that lady from Arderne vicarage to a 
house which she had hired in my parish. Here Mrs. 
Long found solace under her bereavement in the active 
discharge of the task she had undertaken — the education 
of Mildred. The little girl naturally amiable and intelli- 
gent, soon wound herself round the heart of her kind pro- 
tectress. The work of instruction, often so wearying and 
troublesome, was in this case a labour of love. The les- 
sons which the one was so well able to give, the other 
was no less apt to receive ; and the teacher and pupil 
had the mutual affection of mother and child. 

Meanwhile, as years passed away, and Mildred Clif- 
ford grew up to womanhood, it was delightful to see her 
maintaining the same quiet, gentle disposition, the same 
natural manner, the same warm feelings, which had 
made her an engaging child. The sound religious prin- 
ciples with which she had been imbued had early disci- 
plined her mind into habits of self-control. She already 
possessed a firmness and decision of character beyond 
her years ; and the good sense with which she had been 
originally blessed was matured and strengthened, as her 
mind developed itself, and her means of observation were 


CHANCE AND CHANGE. 


73 


increased. In personal appearance she was very pleas- 
ing; her features were good; and the gracefulness of 
her figure and carriage could hardly fail to attract the 
notice of the most careless observer. But her external 
qualities were secondary, as compared with those of her 
mind, and the charms of her simple unaffected manners 
and agreeable conversation. 

It was when Mildred was in her twentieth year, when 
life was beginning to hold out to her all the bright hopes 
which it offers to the young and sanguine, that an event 
occurred which, while it brought out all the energies of 
her character, and afforded her the opportunity of repay- 
ing, in some measure, the debt of obligation which she 
owed to Mrs. Long, was nevertheless a severe trial to a 
person of Mildred’s age and inexperience. Mrs. Long 
was seized with paralysis, struck speechless and helpless 
in an instant, and reduced from the full enjoyment of her 
faculties to the most pitiable state of mental and corpo- 
real prostration. After a time, however, with God’s 
blessing on a naturally vigorous constitution, and thanks 
to the unceasing care and devoted attention of her youth- 
ful nurse, she gradually recovered, and, to all outward 
appearance, was so far restored to health, that a casual 
observer would have hardly noticed a change. But the 
victim was within the grasp of a merciless destroyer, 
who only, lulls apprehension in order that he may more 
certainly secure his prey. Scarcely had Mrs. Long so 
far rallied from her first attack, as that her friends were 
indulging the hope that she would be permanently re- 
stored to them, when a second and far more severe 
seizure took place. From this stroke, likewise, she re- 

7 # 


74 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


covered in a measure. Her countenance re -assumed its 
natural appearance, and her words grew intelligible, and 
she was not quite helpless; but there the amendment 
ceased ; for, alas ! in all besides, she was as much cut 
off from intercourse with those who loved her and whom 
she loved, as if the grave itself had closed over her. The 
powers of her mind were gone, or if not wholly gone, so 
far impaired, that what remained of them was rather a 
misfortune than a blessing. Her memory likewise was 
so extensively affected, that the power of recollecting 
names and things was nearly extinguished; and she 
would continually substitute one name for another, or ask 
for a thing which she did not want. 

Such a change in one to whom she had long looked 
up as a mother, and to whom she was ardently at- 
tached, was deeply distressing to Mildred’s affectionate 
nature ; but perhaps her greatest trial arose from the in- 
voluntary alteration in the temper of the poor invalid, 
who, from having been all her life remarkable for the 
sweetness of her disposition, for kindness, and considera- 
tion for others, had suddenly become fractious, fretful, 
peevish, and so irritable, that it was next to impossible to 
please her ; or if she was pleased with any thing at one 
moment, the very next it became an offence to her. 
That which gave her most satisfaction, probably because 
she was roused by the change, was a visit from any of 
her old friends. Then, for a few minutes at least, the 
dull filmy eye would brighten up with something of its 
wonted expression, and the features wear the semblance 
they did of old ; but as the momentary cause of excite- 
ment passed away, the beam of intelligence subsided into 


CHANCE AND CHANGE. 


75 


a vacant unmeaning gaze, and the attempt at conversa- 
tion became a mere utterance of incoherent words. 

Professionally I could be of no service to Mrs. Long 
(except, of course, that although I could no longer pray 
with her, I was glad of the opportunity to pray for her;) 
but I continued to visit her frequently on Mildred Clif- 
ford’s account, as well as her own, for I dreaded seeing 
the poor girl’s health sink under her accumulated anxie- 
ties, and was very anxious to give her all the assistance 
and comfort I could : the more so, because I had observed 
of late a great and increasing depression of spirits. 

One winter’s day, at the close of the year already 
referred to, I was admitted into Mrs. Long’s sitting-room. 
There, as usual, I found the poor paralytic supported with 
pillows and cushions in her easy chair, and Mildred 
Clifford working beside her ; an open letter was lying 
on the little work-table before her, which she hastily 
folded up, as, with a heightened colour in her cheek, she 
crossed the room to greet me. The usual salutations 
passed, the usual attempt was made to excite Mrs. Long’s 
attention ; the attempt, as usual, was successful for the 
moment, and, as usual, the patient speedily relapsed into 
a state bordering on unconsciousness. 

“And now, my dear young friend,” said I, “tell me 
how you are yourself; or rather (for your looks tell me 
that) assure me that you have been taking more care o 
yourself than, I fear, has been your habit of late. How 
is it that the daily walk is discontinued? Ah,” I contin- 
ued, smiling, “you see I know all about it, and I am 
come to give you a severe scolding.” , 

“ Indeed, Mr. Warlingham, you are very kind to take 


76 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


SO much interest about me : I am sure I must have been 
behaving very ill, if you see occasion to threaten a severe 
scolding. But to tell you the truth,” said she, changing 
her tone, “ I have not been very well ; arid the wind has 
been so cold lately, that 1 have been idle about walking, 
and ” 

“And what?” I inquired, perceiving that the sen- 
tence seemed destined to remain unfinished. 

Mildred still hesitated. 

“ And you did not like leaving Mrs. Long with her 
new attendant? Is that it?” said I. 

I 1 “Yes, Mr. Warlingham,” cried the poor patient her- 
self, in an irritable tone, as she caught a word in my last 
sentence 5 “ yes, they are always leaving me: it’s quite 
cruel to neglect me so. There’s Jane, Fanny, Mildred 
(what’s her name?) always out of the way when I want 
her — never stays in the room five minutes together. 
Where’s she gone to now, I wonder?” 

“Here am I, ma’am,” said Mildred, who had been 
standing behind Mrs. Long, but who now resumed the 
seat at the work-table, which she had left on my entrance. 
“ Can I do any thing for you?” 

Do any thing for me ? Why are you always want- 
ing to disturb me ? Never can I be left quiet for a mo- 
ment. You keep fidgetting about; why won’t you sit 
still? Stop a moment: do move this pillow, it’s too hard 
and too ” 

“ I think you will find that easier, ma’am,” said the 
patient girl, adjusting it gently. Then, as she returned 
to her place, I continued, “You don’t find Sarah Brown 
as handy about Mrs. Long as you had expected ; and so 


CHANCE AND CHANGE. 


77 


you are wearing yourself out with doing her work, as 
well as your" own. Is not that the true state of the 
case 

“ Oh no, Sarah does well enough ; and I dare say I 
shall be quite stout again in a day or two.” 

“ Indeed,” I replied, “ I hope so. I should be sorry if 
your old play-fellow should have to accuse us of not tak- 
ing care of you. When do you expect him ?” 

“ Mark Fullerton?” 

“ Yes ; I understand they have been ready for him at 
the Mynchery for some days.” 

“ I have just had a letter from him : he has put off' 
his arrival till the 15th of December.” 

“ How I long to see him !” I exclaimed. “ Is he much 
altered in appearance ? Six years, at his time of life, is 
apt to make a great change.” 

“No, I think not,” said Mildred. “When I met him 
last summer, I thought him still the image of Mrs. Fuller- 
ton. Mark was always ” 

“Mark Fullerton! Mark Fullerton! nothing from 
morning till night but Mark Fullerton !” cried Mrs. Long. 
“I tell you what, Mr. Fullerton,” addressing me, “Mark 
Warlingham’s name is on that silly girl’s lips all day 
long.” 

“ Oh, madam,” said I, “you know that Mark and Mil- 
dred were like brother and sister all their childhood.” 

“ Childhood !” replied she, sharply ; “ they are not 
children now, are they ? Milly has been with me ever 
since she was a child; and now, because I’m sick, I know 
she will go arid desert me. She’s a most thankless, un- 
grateful, neglectful girl. Well, I’m sure I wish she would 


78 


TALES OP THE VILLAGE. 


marry him, and have done with it ! I wish she woulh 
leave me — I wish ” 

Here the poor paralytic’s agitation became so great, 
that her words failed her, and the torrent of unmerited 
reproach was cut short in the utterance. 

“ Poor creatures that we are,” to adopt the beautiful 
language of Southey, with respect to a similar scene,* — 
poor creatures that we are ! even the strength of reli- 
gious principle and virtuous habit fails us, if reason fails ! 
But there is this consolation for those who contemplate 
the most humiliating condition to which human nature 
can be reduced, that when that fails, moral responsibility 
ceases ; and there remain for the afflicted, in sure rever- 
sion, deliverance in the course of nature, and, in the 
course of Providence, God’s mercy and reward of the 
righteous.” 

When Mrs. Long’s voice failed her, she made an 
effort to raise herself in her chair, and get up. Fortu- 
nately for Mildred, at the same moment one of the pil- 
lows which supported Mrs. Long fell to the ground, and 
this circumstance afforded her the opportunity of busy- 
ing herself about the invalid, and of thus concealing the 
distress and annoyance which so inopportune a speech 
had occasioned ; but although her face was averted, I 
could perceive that the poor girl’s very neck was crim- 
soned with the burning blush which Mrs. Long’s words 
had called up. 

I immediately changed the subject, and had made 
some trivial remark, when Mildred, after a moment’s 
pause, turned round and said, in the calm tone of self- 
* Life of Cowper, vol. iii. p. 109. 


CHANCE AND CHANGE. 


79 


possession, “ I think that dear Mrs. Long is less well to- 
day than usual : irritability with her is always the sign 
of increased suffering. But she is sinking again into her 
usual half-conscious state. When she has once folded 
her arms as she does now,' she will often not speak for 
hours together. I will ring for Sarah ; and if you will 
allow me,” (she spoke with an effort,) “ I will say a few 
words to you in another room.” 

The bell was rung, and Mildred, resigning her charge 
to the attendant, led the way into the next apartment. 

Mr. Warlingham,” she said, when she had entered it 
and shut the door, “ you have been the kind unvarying 
friend of my childhood and youth, and ” (her eyes filled 
with tears as she spoke) “ you were the friend of Mrs. 
Fullerton, and therefore I know I may open myself to you 
unreservedly. I have no adviser now ; there is no one but 
yourself to whom I can speak ; and you will not think 
me unmaidenly and indelicate for saying what I now do. 
I hesitated just now, when you asked why I looked ill or 
unhappy, (I forget which, but I am indeed both the one 
and the other,) — I hesitated, for I could scarce bring my- 
self to speak out. But there should be no AaZ^confidence 
with real friends. I have had many letters lately from 
Mark Fullerton which have given me pain ; but that which 
I have received this morning has made me miserable. 
You know we have always been like brother and sister, 
and have loved each other as such.” 

Here Mildred’s voice failed her, and she stopped short 
once more, as though she wanted courage to proceed in 
what she had been about to say. 

The reader will remember the words which had just 


80 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE, 


fallen from Mrs. Long, and the emotion which Mildred 
had shown in hearing them ; he will remember, further, 
that I had been on the closest terms of intimacy with 
Mildred from her childhood, and that 1 was now the only 
friend to whom she could look for advice, — he will there- 
fore not be surprised that, wishing to save her the dis- 
tress of the more explicit avowal, which seemed rising to 
her lips, I took her hand gently, and said, “ My dear 
Mildred, an old man like me, who has numbered fifty 
years, and who has known you from your cradle, may 
say without offence, what you 'would justly deem an im- 
pertinence in another, — you desire to intimate to me — do 
you not ? — that Mark’s affection for you is wore than that 
of a brother 

Mildred blushed deeply, but almost immediately 
said, “You quite misunderstand me, Mr. Warlingham. 
Mark has never told me that he was attached to me ; 
and I think a woman must have a very ill-regulated 
mind, who can allow^ herself to admit a supposition of 
such a nature upon any grounds short of the most con- 
clusive.” 

I hastened to apologise ; but it was quite evident from 
her manner that their affections were engaged, although 
she had no doubt told me the exact truth ; and not a word 
had passed between them on the subject of their attach- 
ment. 

“You quite misunderstand me,” she repeated ; “it is 
the state of Mark’s mind, and the change which has 
taken place in his religious opinions, which gives me so 
much pain and anxiety. Oh!” she exclaimed, as the 
tears fell fast down her cheeks, “ what would dear Mrs. 


CHANCE AND CHANGE. 


81 


Fullerton have said, could she have contemplated the 
possibility of a son of hers becoming a separatist — a dis- 
senter from the Church !” 

“ A dissenter !” said I, much shocked ; “ surely, 
surely it is impossible. Mark has had some religious 
doubt or scruple, (the most conscientious minds are ever 
the most liable to them,) which your anxiety has magni- 
fied into a far more serious evil.” 

“ Would to God, Mr. Warlingham, it were so. I am 
sure I have tried to deceive myself and to blind my eyes. 
I have endeavoured to persuade myself that I was taking 
unnecessary alarm ; indeed, it is that which has kept me 
silent so long. But, no, no, no ; there can be no mistake 
now: knowing his disposition, and remembering with 
whom he has been living so long, I wonder I have not 
sooner been satisfied as to the real state of things.” 

“ Of course,” said I, “ you allude to his guardian, 
Mr. Fullerton Knewstubs. Like the rest of Mark’s 
friends, I have deeply deplored the connexion ; but it was 
inevitable. Had that gentleman been a dissenter when 
Mrs. Fullerton was alive, of course she would never have 
nominated him as guardian to her son in the event of Mr. 
Sykes’s death. But this was a circumstance against 
which no human foresight could guard. My hope has 
always been that, alihough nominally a dissenter him- 
self, Mr. Knewstubs would neither have leisure nor incli- 
nation to attempt to bias Mark’s mind. The world, you 
know, has always said that he merely changed his reli- 
gious tenets to please old Peter Knewstubs, and secure 
his money-bags. God forbid we should judge him so 
harshly ; certainly, however, all I have ever heard would 
8 


82 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


incline me to suppose that he thought more about his 
bank than the meeting-house, more about money than 
religion.” 

“It may have been so formerly,” said Mildred; “ but 
he evidently thinks more about religion than money now. 
His strong political opinions have made him a favourite 

and leading man among the dissenters at B . There 

is no zeal like that of a new proselyte, and I make no 
doubt that it is owing to his influence, that Mark is adopt- 
ing sectarian views.” 

“ Mr. Knewstubs is what is called an Independent, is 
he not ?” 

“ Yes,” replied Mildred. 

“ Have you any reason to believe that Mark has ac- 
tually adopted the tenets of that sect, and forsaken the 
Church?” 

“ I cannot speak positively,” was Mildred’s answer. 
“You remember he was staying for a month last spring 
at the Dixie’s, and they were kind enough to ask me to 
meet him. Mrs. Long, who was then in health, permit- 
ted me to go, and of course we were a great deal togeth- 
er. I thought some of his notions were very different 
from mine, — very different from those doctrines which, as 
a member of your flock, I have been taught by you ; but 
I could not persuade myself that I knew more on such 
matters than he did ; and so I said but little, though I 
own, that when he got upon the liberal opinions of modern 
times, the mischief of creeds, and the folly of what he 
called fettering private judgment, I was a good deal 
pained and shocked. Well, ever since that time his let- 
ters have been all in the same strain ; only there has been 


CHANCE AND CHANGE. 


83 


more and more abuse of the Church : and he actually 
says in his letter this morning, that he suspects, from all 
he hears, that the Church ruins more souls than she saves.” 

“You say you have never engaged in argument with 
him on the subject ?” 

‘^Oh, no. I thought it far better not to do that; for 
although I have abundant confidence in the cause, I 
should have but little in myself as the advocate: so I 
have always avoided discussion, by saying, that unless 
he was himself living up to the Church’s ordinances, he 
had no right to condemn her; and that if he had scruples 
or doubts, he ought to consult a clergyman, or some one 
better informed than I could pretend to be.” 

“I think,” said I, “you have acted very wisely.” 

“ Oh,” replied Mildred, modestly, “ I know Mark’s dis- 
position well. His besetting sin is vanity, and a reliance 
on his own judgment. He is very easily led into any 
opinion by a person who knows how to manage him ; 
but to lead him out of one is no such easy matter. To 
argue with him is generally the sure means of confirming 
him in his previous notions, whether right or wrong.” 

“ I wonder whether he has studied the points at issue 
between the dissenters and the Church? I should hardly 
think (even in these days) that an educated person could 
be so little alive to the guilt of schism, as to become a 
seceder on light grounds.” 

“ I really cannot say how this may be,” said Mildred ; 
“ like myself, he was early imbued with the rudiments of 
sound Church-principles by his dear mother ; but from 
the period of her death, I have had no means of judging 
of his progress in them. He was always what is called 


84 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


a religious person, — that is, he thought more of God and 
holy things than boys of his age usually do ; and I feel 
sure of his doing what he thinks right : perhaps, how- 
ever, his judgment is not very strong ; but then he is 
such a kind, generous nature.” 

It was impossible to watch Mildred Clifford through 
the fluctuations of her last speech, without perceiving the 
state of her own feelings, and the struggle between her 
sense of duty in telling these painful truths, and her de- 
sire to see all that Mark did or said in the most favourable 
light possible. The moment she had uttered any thing 
which seemed calculated to give an unfavourable impres- 
sion, she tried to qualify it, or bring forward some oppo- 
site quality in Mark’s character, which she could dwell 
upon and praise without scruple. 

I felt so much for her, that I forbore to press my in- 
quiries further. But she had prescribed herself a task, 
and she was prepared to go through with it. 

“ I wish,” she said, after a moment’s pause, — “ I wish 
I knew my own line of duty towards him. This was the 
point, Mr. Warlinghara, on which I wished to consult you. 
I am not the least afraid of his unsettling my mind, if he 
should come here and talk to me about his new opinions. 
In the faith of the Church of England I have hitherto 
lived ; and for that faith, if need should arise, I trust I 
might be found worthy to die. I am quite satisfied that 
if our Church be not the Church of Christ in this countryt 
no other can be ; all that is not in communion with her 
must be schismatic or heretical ; and my daily-increasing 
conviction is, that could I but live up to her ordinances, I 
should be defective in no one point of doctrine or practice 


CHANCE AND CHANGE. 


85 


which is needful for a member of the one true Catholic 
Church. But what is my duty towards Mark? If he 
brings forward the views of the sect which he admires, 
am I bound to argue as well as I can against them And, 
again, if he professes himself a confirmed dissenter, is it 
my duty to continue on the same terms of intimacy with 
him as heretofore?” 

“ I will answer your last question first,” said I. “ Sup- 
posing him to profess himself openly a seceder from the 
Church of England, I do not see how you can do so. 
So long as you have a rational hope that by word or 
good example you may win him back to the Church, I 
know no reason why you should withdraw from his so- 
ciety — many why you should maintain a different course. 
Your daily prayers will be offered, your best exertions 
made in his behalf ; and God, who seeth hearts, will ap- 
preciate your motive. But if he distinctly tells you that 
his mind is irrevocably made up to leave his mother- 
church, as one whose doctrines and practices are cor- 
rupt, and who ‘ ruins more souls than she saves,’ then I 
say that, as a conscientious churchwoman, your line of 
duty is unquestionable. Perhaps you have a Prayer- 
book containing the canons of our Church ?” 

Mildred gave me one. 

“ Here,” said I, “ this is the language of the 9th can- 
on, and it applies to the sharers in schism, as well as to 
the authors of it.” I then read as follows; “ Whosoever 
shall hereafter separate themselves from the communion 
of saints, as it is approved by the apostles’ rules, in the 
Church of England^ and combine themselves together 
in a new brotherhood, accounting the Christians who 
8 * 


86 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


are conformable to the doctrine, government, rites, and 
ceremonies of the Church of England, to be profane and 
unmeet for them to join with in Christian profession ; let 
them be excommunicated ipso facto, and not restored but 
by the archbishop, after their repentance and public re- 
vocation of such their wicked errors.” I then contin- 
ued : “It seems to me that when a person has formally 
maintained the doctrine here condemned, (as every man 
does, who asserts that the Church of England ruins 
more souls than she saves,) he is no longer a fit object 
for the intimacy of any faithful obedient member of our 
Church. He is pronounced ipso facto excommunicate by 
that Church ; and we all know who it is that saith, if a 
man fail to hear the Church, he is to be looked upon as 
a ‘heathen man and a publican.’* I am quite aware 
that such a doctrine as I am now maintaining, would be 
held by many to be the height of bigotry, illiberality, and 
so forth ; but the question is, not what is the world’s way 
of thinking, but what is the law of God and the custom 
of the Church in her best and earliest days.f To the 
law and to the testimony I appeal. To every argument 
opposed to them by modern lovers of expediency, I have 
but one answer to make, — that made by the blessed apos- 
tles to men of like minds in their days, — ‘ Whether it be 
right in the sight of God to hearken unto you more than 
unto God, judge ye.’J I will leave the Prayer-book 
open, so that, if you please, you can refer to it ; and if 

* Matt, xviii. 17. 

t See Bingham’s Antiquities, vol. vi. p. 105, (edit. 1829.) 

t Acts iv. 19. 


CHANCE AND CHANGE. 


87 


any question arises in yCur mind on the subject, I shall 
be happy to answer it.” 

Mildred looked very pale, and thanked me, but said 
nothing more; so I continued: 

“ With respect to the other question you proposed to 
me, namely, whether it was your duty to argue with 
Mark on the points at issue between him and Church- 
men, I should say generally, that you must be guided 
by your own discretion. On some points you may be 
able to say more to him, and do more good, than any 
other person ; on others, it is better, probably, that he 
should be met by a more experienced disputant, one 
whose profession has led him to study the subjects of 
controversy deeply, — (a painful study, and hurtful to the 
mind, which you have been mercifully spared.) If Mark 
is disposed to consult the Vicar of Arderne, he will find an 
able adviser; if he should prefer coming to me, I need 
not tell you how happy I shall be to see him at all limes ; 
and if delicacy or any other motive prevents his coming 
to me, why, as an old friend of all who love him, I shall 
certainly go to him, and ascertain the state of his mind. 
Meanwhile, do you keep up heart and spirits, and remem- 
ber I am close at hand, if you want help or comfort.” 

“ God bless you, Mr. Warlingham,” exclaimed the 
poor girl. Her eyes filled with tears ; and as I thought 
of the trial that awaited her, it was all I could do not to 
follow her example. So we said no more, shook hands, 
and parted. 






3£letitrn. 


The voices of my home ! I hear them still ; 

They have been with me through the dreamy night — 

The blessed household voices, wfont to fill 
My heart’s clear depths with unalloy’d delight ! 

1 hear them still, unchanged ; though some from earth 
Are music parted, — and the tones of mirth, 

(Wild silvery tones, that rang through days more bright !) 
Have died in others, — yet to me they come 
Singing of boyhood back, — the voices of my home ! 

Mrs. Hemans. 








I 



V 




CHAPTER V. 

“ A FEW weeks had passed away after the scene record- 
ed in the last chapter, before I received intelligence that 
Mark Fullerton had returned to the Mynchery ; and the 
heavy increase of parochial duties which the Christmas sea- 
son always brings with it, filling up my leisure, and divert- 
ing my thoughts into other channels, New-Year’s day ar- 
rived without my having been able to call at Godsholme, 
or feeling much surprise that the young heir had not found 
his way to the vicarage of Yateshull. He has much to 
arrange and settle, thought I, on taking possession of his 
estate after such a long absence ; so I will not be incon- 
veniently early in my visit. 

However, my scruples were soon brought to an end 
by a few words which dropped from an old acquaintance 
of the reader’s whom I met one morning in my village — 
Miss Burr ; no longer, however, a spinster, but the smart,, 
bustling wife of Mr. Badger, the attorney, who was safd 
to have married her out of sheer gratitude for the in- 
creased- amount of professional business which had ac- 
crued to him from the quarrels produced by Miss Prowle’s 
indefatigable mischief-making. 

“ Have you seen Mr. Fullerton, sir ?” said she. 


92 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


“No, ma’am, not yet; have you?” 

“ O yes, sir ; a fortnight ago. Saw him the very af- 
ternoon he arrived ; indeed I may say I was the first per- 
.son in Chatterton that had the pleasure. I saw him in 
our looking-glass.” 

“Saw him in your looking-glass?” said I, in some 
surprise. 

“Yes, sir; the moment his carriage came down the 
hill, I caught a glimpse of him. It’s very pleasant to 
know what’s going on ; and I have hung the looking-glass 
in our parlour so as to command a view of the street, you 
know ; and I mostly sit before it, and then I can tell who’s 
coming into the town, and who’s going out of it.” 

“Very true, ma’am; and you saw Mr. Fullerton im- 
mediately, I dare say. Mr. Badger, no doubt, continues 
in the agency.” 

“Yes, sir; he asked Mr. Badger to dinner that very 
day. To be sure, Mr. B. had dined ; but, of course, he 
couldn’t refuse. I was very glad he went, though he was 
poorly after it ; there were only they two ; but every thing 
was in the first style, just as it should be ; fish, patties, 
and all. Very promising young man is Mr. Fullerton! 
Pity he is a dissenter !” 

“ I should hope, ma’am, that! you have been misin- 
'mrmed.” 

“ I wish I was, sir ; and the more so, because it must 
be very distressing to you (who were always such a friend 
of the family) to be made aware of it. But I know for 
certain that Mr. Fullerton has not only refused to sub- 
scribe to the new church on Mirkley Moor, (though it is 
close to his own colliery,) but, between ourselves, he has 


THE RETURN. 


93 


given Mr. Badger instructions to offer a site, rent-free, for 
the Independent chapel they talk of building at Chatter- 
ton.” 

This was sad news. Had it rested only on Mrs. Bad- 
ger’s authority, I should have placed little reliance on it j 
but coinciding as' it did with all that I had heard from 
Mildred Clifford, it confirmed my former apprehensions : 
and I therefore resolved to walk over to Godsholme im- 
mediately, in the hope that, with God’s blessing, I might, 
upon the renewal of our acquaintance, gain such an influ- 
ence over the young man’s mind, as might induce him to 
reconsider the causes and ground of his alleged separation 
from the Church ; or that, at any rate, I might dissuade 
him from a public act which would foster the growth of 
schism in the neighbourhood, and at once identify him 
with the objects of the dissenters. 

I proceeded to the Mynchery without delay ; was ad- 
mitted at once, and ushered into the same library where, 
six years before, I had paid my visit of condolence upon 
the death of Mrs. Fullerton. The handsome boy had 
grown up into a scarcely less handsome man ; and as he 
approached me with hand extended, and his fine anima- 
ted features lighted up with an expression of sincere 
pleasure, I forgot for a moment the painful feelings of 
anxiety with which I had approached his mansion. No- 
thing could be more cordial than the manner in which he 
received me. He welcomed me with all the ardour of old 
affection ; reiterated his assurances that he had never for- 
gotten me in his long absence ; and protested, laughing- 
ly, that I did not look a day older since I used to join with 
9 


94 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


him in childish play, and carry him on my back along the 
terraces of the garden. 

“ Oh,” said I, “ my bald head and stiffening limbs tell 
a very different story, — ‘ the keepers of the house trem- 
ble, and those that look out of the windows are darkened 
sufficiently intelligible hints, you know, that, ere long, the 
silver cord will be loosed, and the golden bowl broken. 
My years are drawing to their close ; but, among many 
sources of thankfulness, 1 can thank God from my heart 
that I have been spared to see you take possession of this 
estate, and to wish you many, many happy returns of the 
new year which we commence to-day.” 

“Mr. Warlingham,” replied Mark, in a tone of deep 
feeling, “ you have touched a chord, to which, at the pres- 
ent moment, all my feelings are responding. I cannot 
express to you how lonely I feel, as all the old associa- 
tions connected with this season come over my mind. 
The vivid recollections of happy days gone by crowd 
upon me; the voices of the absent and the dead are 
ringing in my ears ; I count the vacant places at the table 
once so hospitably filled ; every spot I visit, nay, every 
sight and sound of daily life, are filled with sad and dark 
remembrances.” 

“ Believe me,” said I, “ I can enter into all your feel- 
ings. I am well aware that your first return here must 
be very painful.” 

“ Oh, yes,” continued Mark, absorbed in his own re- 
flections, and scarcely conscious that 1 had spoken,— “ oh, 
yes ; and you remember how scrupulously my poor mother 
* Eccles. xii. 3. 


THE RETURN. 


95 


kept up old customs, — relics, as she used to call them, of 
a simpler age, when rich and poor were not separated 
from each other in manners and interests as they are 
now-a-days; when no ‘great gulf’ was fixed between 
them, and the luxuries of life had not banished its chari- 
ties. All that was harmless, and hospitable, and kindly, 
she encouraged j and loved to gather her friends and 
neighbours round her, to partake of Christmas-merriment 
and Christmas-fare.” 

“ Ay,” said I, “ she was one who had all the poet’s 
feeling upon that subject ; she knew that — 

‘ England was merry England when 
Old Christmas brought his sports again : 

’Twas Christmas broach’d the mightiest ale ; 

’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale j 

A Christmas-gambol ofl could cheer 

The poor man’s heart through half the year.’ 

It was her effort (for she knew the value of such associa- 
tions) to make all within her reach feel a common joy in 
the recurrence of the season 

' ‘ That to the cottage, as the crown, 

Brought tidings of salvation down.’ ” 

“ Thank you, thank you,” cried Mark, with enthusi- 
asm, “ for bringing those beautiful lines to my recollec- 
tion ! It seems but yesterday (so strong are the impres- 
sions of childhood) since my dear mother was busying 
herself in all her acts of hospitality and kindness.” 

“Yes,” I replied; “I too can recall the scene: the 
dole on St. Thomas’s day ; the gifts of fuel and warm 
clothing ; the tenants’ ball, where she showed such real 


96 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


unfeigned pleasure in making her dependents happy ; ay, 
and the festivity of twelfth-night for so many laughing 
children.” 

“ It seems foolish to confess such a thing ; but I declare 
to you, Mr. Warlingham, that the most trivial circum- 
stances connected with this season are as full of interest 
to me now as when I was a boy. I have a melancholy 
pleasure in them. The singers of carols on Christmas- 
eve ; the decking of the hall and old staircase ; nay, the 
very boar’s head and Christmas-pie that used to appear 
so wondrous to my boyish imagination, their absence or 
presence alike fills me with sad thoughts of ‘ auld lang 
syne.’ And I declare to you that last night, as I sat list- 
ening to the distant chimes of the bells at Arderne, which 
were ‘ ringing the old year out and the new year in,’ I 
felt so lonely and desolate in the world, that I almost 
wished I had never returned here.” 

All this was said with an earnestness and simplicity 
.of manner that delighted me ; for it showed that what- 
ever might be the erroneous opinions which the youthful 
heir of Godsholme had adopted, there was a kind, affec- 
tionate nature to work upon, and a heart as yet not 
hardened by the world and its evil ways. In such cases 
there is always hope, that they who have erred, or are 
deceived, may be brought back into the way of truth. 1 
replied as follows : — 

“ The feeling you have expressed,” said I, “ was very 
natural. All memorials are melancholy; every thing 
which recalls past happiness must have a tinge of sad- 
ness upon it ; and. though as years roll on, w^e grow more 
callous, not a few of the pleasing associations of our child- 


THE RETURN. 


97 


hood remain indelible to our life’s end, — a witness within 
us which God Himself has placed there, to carry us back 
to days when we were comparatively innocent, when our 
faith was unhesitating, and our obedience unmurmuring ; 
and to preserve our hearts from the hardening, deaden- 
ing influence of things temporal. Every year, everyday 
that passes over us, has, or ought to have, associations 
which are, to our present ways of thinking, melancholy ; 
for change and mutability are written on all we see and 
on all we have, and it is well we should read the lesson 
continually. But that were a morbid and unhealthy feel- 
ing which could make us forget our present mercies, and 
created a sort of luxury of sorrow by dwelling chiefly on 
the happiness of the inevitable past.” 

“You say true, Mr. Warlingham : rapidly as external 
objects change, we ourselves change still more rapidly. 
I am sure I felt this on my arrival here. Persons and 
things were so altered at the end of six years, that I scarce 
knew them. New faces met me everywhere ; and 
though the hills and fields were the same, there was 
something which had changed the face of nature to a 
minute observer like myself : a tree had been cut down 
here, a plantation had grown up there, or I missed some 
well-remembered gate or stile, which was like an old 
friend to me. All was changed ; and yet, Mr. Warling- 
ham, the greatest change of all was in myself. Wishes, 
views, opinions, principles of action, — all are altered since 
I left this place.” 

“You mean,” said I, anxious to draw him out, “that 
you left us a boy, and are returned to us a man. Then 
9 * 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


you thought as a child, and spake as a child ; now you 
have put away childish things 1” 

“ No, I mean literally what I say.” 

“ Then you say what I must grieve to hear ; for 
the views and principles with which your mother im- 
bued you, were of a kind that can hardly be given up 
without infinite peril to him who surrenders them.” 

She thought so, certainly,” said Mark, ‘‘ or she would 
not have instilled them j and you think so, because you 
are a Churchman.” 

“ A Churchman ? To be sure I am ! Do you mean 
to insinuate that you are not ?” 

“I thought by this time it must have been pretty 
widely known that I was no particular friend to the Es- 
tablishment. Were you not already aware of this? I 
am sure I have made no secret of it.” 

I heard,” said I, “ with considerable surprise, this 
morning, that you had declined to contribute to the 
church which is now erecting close to your own colliery 
at Mirkley Moorj but I hoped the statement was erro- 
neous.” 

“Why were you surprised, Mr. Warlingham? My 
money is my own ; I have the right to do what I will 
with it.” 

“ The power unquestionably, but not the right. How- 
ever, my surprise arose from finding it possible that one 
of your name and means should hesitate for a moment on 
such a subject. Are you not lay impropriator of Ar- 
derne? Do you not receive the great tithes, to the 
amount of several hundred pounds a year, of the parish 
in which Mirkley Moor is situated ?” 


THE RETURN. 


99 


“Yes, I am,” replied Mark ; “ but what of that ?” 

“ Why then you, of all men living, are most bound to 
provide for the spiritual necessities of that population. If 
restitution of what was imlawfully seized at first is not to 
be looked for at the end of three centuries or more, (for I 
know neither when nor by whom Arderne was made a 
vicarage,) from persons situated as you are. Churchmen 
have at least a most urgent claim upon you to contribute 
to the Church’s need ; and I should have imagined you 
would not be sorry to deprecate by liberal offerings the 
wrath of God on the original act of sacrilege.”* 

* It is possible that this volume may fall into the hands of 
some one who is the lay impropriator of the tithes of a popu- 
lous parish. To such a person the author can make no apology 
for entreating his most earnest consideration of the subjoined 
extract, and for reminding him of the responsibilities which 
his possessions have entailed upon him. 

“ O how lamentable is the case of a poor approprietary, 
that, dying, thinketh of no other account but of that touch- 
ing his lay vocation ! and then coming before the judgment- 
seat of Almighty God, must answer also for this spiritual 
function : first, why he meddled with it, not being called 
unto it ; then, why (meddling with it) he did not the duty 
that belongeth unto it, in seeing the Church carefully served, 
the ministers thereof sufficiently maintained, and the poor of 
the parish faithfully relieved. Look how many of the parish- 
ioners are cast away for want of teaching, — he is guilty of 
their blood ; of his hand it shall be required, because he hath 
taken upon him the charge. He saith he is parson of that 
place, and of his own mouth God will judge him, for idle par- 
sons are guilty of the blood of their parishioners It is 


100 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


“You do not mean, Mr. Warlingham, that you think 
that, because the great tithes of Arderne belonged at 
some distant period to the incumbent, I am bound at this 
time to restore them ? Why, Arderne has been a vicar- 
age time out of mind.” 

“ I do not see,” I answered, “ how lapse of time can 
affect the Church’s moral right. If restoration was the 
bounden duty of a former generation, it is a bounden duty 
still. The unconscious receiver of stolen goods will (if 
he be an honest man) give them up to their rightful own- 
er, as soon as he finds out that they are stolen.” 

“You seem to forget, Mr. Warlingham, what appears 
to me to be a very important point. The great tithes of 
Arderne never belonged to the Church since the Refor- 
mation : they were dedicated originally by idolatrous 
persons for the maintenance of popish superstitions; 
therefore they could neither be sacred nor acceptable to 
God.” 

“ Excuse me,” said I, “ there is a somewhat parallel 
case in Scripture, which would lead us to a very different 
conclusion. The sin of Korah and his company was (if 
we are to judge by the punishment that followed it) far 
more grievous than that of the persons to whom you al- 
lude, by how much the more presuinption is more offen- 
sive to God than ignorance ; but since even ‘ the censers 
of these sinners against their own souls’ were henceforth 
‘ hallowed,’ because they had ‘ offered them before the 
Lord,’ needs must that the pious gifts and intentions of 

not therefore a work of bounty and benevolence to restore these 
appropriations to the churches^ but of duty and necessity so to 
do." — Spelman on Tithes^ p. 145. 


V .. 

') 


THE RETURN. 


101 


those who bestowed the tithes — needs must, I say, that 
these should sanctify and consecrate unto God for ever 
what might have been superstitiously offered at first.” 

“ Well, Mr. Warlingham, you have put this matter in 
a light in which I have not hitherto been accustomed to 
view it. It seems to me, however, that you have proved 
too much ; for if, on the grounds which you allege, I am 
bound to contribute of my substance to any religious 
community, my donations ought to go to the Roman Cath- 
olics, not to the Established Church.” 

u Why ?” 

“ Because whoever originally gave the great tithes of 
Arderne to the Church was a Roman Catholic.” 

“ Pardon me, he was a Catholic, but not a Roman 
Catholic. He was a member of the Church of England 
then indeed holding communion with the Church of 
Rome, but still the Church of England. If the Church 
has since reformed itself, still it does not cease to be the 
same Church, any more than a field of wheat ceases to 
be the same field because it has been weeded.” 

“Well, well, Mr. Warlingham,” said Mark, with a 
good-humoured smile, “ I scarcely need arguments to tell 
me I am not to give my money to the pope. I have made 
up my mind how to act. Here,” he continued, as he rose 
from the table at which he had just been writing, “ I 
mustn’t let an old friend have a bad opinion of me the 
first day of our meeting. Here is a draft for £100 to- 
wards the church at Mirkley ; and I wish, with all my 
heart, that the good which you anticipate may result from 
its erection.” 

I was gratified, but not satisfied. Perhaps my vanity 


102 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


was pleased at having obtained, without difficulty, what 
others had solicited in vain ; but a moment’s reflection 
told me that the donation so given was either intended as 
a personal compliment to myself, or would have been 
granted with equal readiness to the Roman Catholic 
priest or the Independent preacher. It is easier to give 
than to refuse ; and the spurious liberalism of the day has 
(among all its other hundred falsehoods) a false charity, 
which takes pride in making “ no distinctions,” in contrib- 
uting to the Church one hour, and to the meeting-house 
the next. This, probably, was the secret of Mark’s ready 
gift ; for the general bearing of his conversation, coupled 
with what I had heard from Mildred Cliflbrd, (to say 
nothing of Mrs. Badger’s ominous anecdotes,) convinced 
me that if he still called himself a Churchman, his prin- 
ciples must be exceedingly lax. At best, he could be 
only halting between two opinions. He was not one 
who was “ fully persuaded in his own mind but must 
needs be wavering and vacillating between extremes — the 
balance now preponderating in favour of one set of no- 
tions, now in favour of another. 

I resolved, therefore, if possible to probe him ; so, 
after thanking him cordially for his munificent donation, 
(for munificent it was, as compared with what many 
richer men than my friend would have contributed — 
men, I mean, who give their pitiful units where they 
ought to give tens, and hundreds where they ought to 
offer thousands,) and acknowledging his kindness in 
making me the bearer of it, I added, “ And now do tell 


Rom. xiv. 5. 


THE RETURN. 


103 


me what you meant when you said, a short time ago, that 
' you were no particular friend of the Church. I hold in 
my hand a very sufficient evidence to the contrary ; do 
I not ? and a proof thal the report was false, that you 
had declined to contribute to the church at Mirkley 1” 

The colour rushed into Mark’s cheeks as I put this 
question ; he seemed quite confused, and as if he was 
hesitating how to answer me. “ Come,” thought I, “ this 
argues well ; he is, at least, not firmly fixed in his erro- 
neous opinions.” 

After a short pause he said, — “ It is quite true, I did 
refuse Mr. Harvey; and, perhaps, I have been some- 
what inconsistent in yielding to your solicitation: but 
you put the matter in a new light, and — and — in short,” 
added he, affectionately, “ I was unwilling to refuse you 
any thing.” 

“ But why should you, who have been born and bred 
a Churchman, and with ample means at your disposal, 
have had a moment’s hesitation on the subject ?” 

“Because, Mr. Warlingham, my opinion with respect 
to the Church has (as I have already hinted) undergone 
a great change of late.” 

“May I know what are the points to which you 
allude 1” 

“ Oh,” replied he, “ it would be an interminable dis- 
cussion, and a useless one, for I have made up my mind. 
And yet it is almost due to you, who have known me so 
long, and who have ever shown such kind interest about 
me, that you should be made acquainted with the real 
state of my mind. It is growing late now ; but if you 


104 


TALES OP THE VILLAGE. 


will dine and sleep here to-night, you will at least save 
me from a solitary dinner on New-Year’s day, and we 
shall have plenty of leisure in the evening for conversa- 
tion.” 


W 

Ql 






Why should I e’er forsake thy dwelling, Blest 
Of God j or whither from Thy shelter move f 
Whate’er vouchsafement waits Us from above; 

To cheer, sustain, enlighten, is possest 
By Thee, and Thou to Thine distributest : 

And sure I think, if tempted once to rove 
From thee, my foot would find, like Noah’s dove; 

O’er the wide waters refuge none, nor rest. 

Grace is within thy precincts. Holy Ark j 
Grace and salvation ! And though gathering gloom 
Now and again with signs of presage dark 
O’erhang Thee, mercy’s beams the screen illume ; 

And faith on blackest clouds may brightest mark 
God’s bow, the pledge of blessings yet to come ! 

BtsHOF Mart. 




CHAPTER VI. 

The gloomy winter’s day had been long shut out; 
curtains were drawn, candles lighted, and the logs were 
blazing and crackling on the capacious hearth, bringing 
the projecting ornaments of the oaken wainscot into 
strong relief, glancing on the gilding of the picture-frames 
and of the backs of the books, and filling the old library 
with warmth and cheerfulness, — when I claimed of Mark 
Fullerton the fulfillment of his promise. “ The rain beats 
so heavily against the lattice, and the wind howls so 
mournfully, that it makes one’s heart ache to think of 
those who may be houseless and destitute, or of the poor 
fellows who are at sea in such a night ! I cannot be too 
thankful for the hospitality which has forbidden my re- 
turning home, and has placed me in such comfortable 
quarters as these. But I must not forget that I am here 
upon conditions ; namely, that I should hear from you, 
and discuss with you, the change which you say has 
taken place in your opinions with respect to the Church.” 

Mark certainly would have been glad to avoid the 
subject, but there was no loophole of escape ; so he said 
bluntly, “ I am come to that time of life when I can no 


108 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


longer submit to be kept in leading-strings. Every body, 
you know, has a right to think for themselves. I have 
exercised that right, and formed my own opinion about 
the Church and its ordinances.” 

“I wonder what you mean by ‘a right? Do you 
mean, that you have the same right to think as you 
please on religious subjects as you have to look out of the 
window, for instance T’ 

“Yes, if I do my neighbour no harm by looking out 
of the window.” 

“ It would do your neighbour no harm, if, instead of 
looking out of the window, you threw yourself out of it. 
Have you a right to do that ?” 

“ No.” 

“Why not? it wouldn’t hurt your neighbour.” 

“ Very likely, but it would kill me.” 

“ Then you do not think yourself justified in doing 
that which may hurt the body — you have no right to do 
that; and yet you have a right to do that which may be 
the ruin of your soul 1” 

“ How can I ruin my soul by thinking for myself ? 
God will not punish me for acting honestly and consci- 
entiously.” 

“ Look at the worst heresies that have ever sprung 
up in the Christian world, — have not their promulgators 
been honest and conscientious men, — that is, men who 
said what they believed, and persuaded themselves that 
they held the truth, and were bound to publish it 1” 

“ Well, but surely, Mr. Warlingham, you do not mean 
to deny to individuals the right of private judgment ? that 
would be downright popery.” 


SELF-CONFIDENCE. 


109 


“ I suppose,” said I, “you assume (what in the ma- 
jority of cases is no small assumption) that the individuals 
in question have the necessary qualifications to form an 
opinion. You do not mean that the unlearned, the illit- 
erate, the prejudiced, the idiot, or the child, must judge 
for themselves ?” 

“Of course I am only speaking of those who are 
qualified.” 

“ Then, who are qualified, and who are not ?” 

Mark was silent. 

“You do not answer me,” said I; “perhaps you are 
unable to speak of others, but at least you are satisfied 
that you are qualified yourself wow, and that there was a 
time when you were not qualified to decide from the 
Bible what is truth and what is not. How and when did 
you arrive at your present qualifications? By what 
means did you acquire them? Was their acquisition 
gradual or instantaneous ?” 

“ Oh, of course it was gradual. There was a time 
when I took things for granted, and might have done so 
till the present day, if I had not gone to live with my 
uncle Knewstubs ; but there I found the principles of free 
inquiry so strongly advocated, that I began to investi- 
gate for myself. I took my Bible in my hand, and used 
the reason which God has given me. I thought a good 
deal on the subject on which I felt doubts, got informa- 
tion where I could when I wanted it, and then made up 
my mind.” 

“ Pray did you ever go to the Church for the infor- 
mation you wanted ?” 

“ Oh, of course, I knew already what the Church’s 
10 * 


110 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


opinion was ; but what I wanted to do was, to see wheth- 
er the Church was right or wrong.” 

“ And the tests by which you tried her were the Bible 
and your own reason ?” 

“ Exactly ; how could I do otherwise, without falling 
into the popish doctrine that we are to take all upon trust, 
and that nothing is left to individual judgment 

“ By adhering to the course which the Church of Eng- 
land prescribes to her children.” 

I saw that Mark seemed puzzled, but apparently did 
not choose to confess it. He had evidently to learn that 
there was a middle course between Romanism and ultra- 
Protestantism. I thought it best, however, to take no 
notice of his embarrassment, and proceeded thus: “You 
tell me, that in forming your opinion on any given point, 
it was your habit to seek for information wherever you 
could find it : you therefore sought for a guide of some 
sort to enable you to make up your mind. I am stating 
your words correctly, am I not ?” 

“You are.” 

“ Then you have, in fact, been misleading yourself all 
the while, by a very common fallacy ; your judgment, 
after all, has not been an independent one.” 

“ Certainly,” said Mark, “ I have referred to the opin- 
ions of others ; but my ultimate decision was my own.” 

“ Of course,” I replied. “ There can be no responsi- 
bility, unless there is an exercise of private judgment. 
We must all come to that at last. On that point I am 
quite ready to agree with you : but the question is, upon 
what grounds a judgment is to be formed. You, to use 
your own expression, get the information which is to 


SELF-CONFIDENCE. 


Ill 


qualify you for forming your judgment where you can ; 
I go to a definite source.” 

“ What is that, Mr. Warlingham ?” 

“ Catholic tradition,” said I. 

“ Tradition !” exclaimed Mark. “ What do you mean 
by tradition? The very name seems redolent of popish 
legends and the fictions of the dark ages, — St. George 
and the dragon, St. Christopher the giant, the seven 
sleepers, and the eleven thousand virgins ! Surely you 
are not going to call such a witness as that into court ?” 

“Nay,” I rejoined, “there is no use of quarrelling 
with the word, because it has a bad sense as well as a 
good one. Tradition is any thing which has been hand- 
ed down from age to age. In this sense of the word the 
creeds are tradition, all history is tradition, the Bible 
itself is tradition. When I speak of our receiving a 
thing on tradition, I mean, as Hooker says, that ‘ so we 
believe, because both we from our predecessors, and 
they from theirs have so received.’ And when I speak 
of catholic tradition, I mean the witness of separate and 
independent Churches with respect to any given fact or 
doctrine, that that fact or doctrine ‘ has not been invent- 
ed by themselves, like the Romish traditions, but received 
from a prior generation j’ and such tradition is ‘ apos- 
tolical, only when it can be traced through a sufficient 
number of independent sources (a proof never attempted 
by Romanism) up to the apostolical body.’ ” 

“ Do you mean that there are any doctrines and prac- 
tices contained in holy Scripture, which, but for tradi- 
tion, we should never have found there V’ 

“ Certainly,” I replied. “ The duty of baptizing infants 


112 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


would hardly perhaps have been discovered by any indi- 
vidual for himself, unless tradition had pointed out the 
way in which it is to be inferred from a collocation of 
texts. So again, with regard to Christian practice, who 
at the present day, (if tradition had been hitherto silent,) 
would have discovered from one or two apparently cas- 
ual expressions (as we should call them) in the New 
Testament, that the first day of the week, instead of the 
seventh, was to be kept holy by Christians ? We should 
no more have inferred this because St. John speaks of 
the ‘Lord’s day,’ than we should have found out the 
doctrine of the resurrection from the words of the Al- 
mighty to Moses, ‘I am the God of Abraham, the God 
of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.’ The doctrine was latent 
in both cases, and required something to bring it out. 
You understand me ?” Mark assented, and I continued. 
“I will return to what I was saying just now: in form- 
ing my judgment as to the meaning of Scripture, I go to 
tradition ; and by tradition, I mean the testimony afford- 
ed by history that the Church of Christ has held such 
and such doctrines from the apostles’ times. And I leave 
it to your own common sense and humility to decide which 
is most likely to be right,— an opinion so formed, or one 
that has been picked up you know not how, — from any 
chance source of information which may happen to be at 
hand.” 

“But, Mr. Warlingham, I repeat it, is not yours the 
popish doctrine ?” 

“ No. The Romanist maintains that nothing is left 
to individual judgment; that the Church in any age may 
pronounce a decision on all matters of religion ; that such 


SELF-CONFIDENCE. 


113 


a decision is binding on all her members ; and that once 
pronounced, all private judgment on the matter is wholly 
superseded — there is no room for it. The Church of 
England; on the other hand, maintains, indeed, that pri- 
vate judgment on the fundamental truths of Scripture 
has been superseded ; but this, not by any authoritative 
sentence of the Church,* but, as I say, by tradition, by 
evidence which shows what has been the uniform doc- 
trine of the faithful always and everywhere.” 

“ But are we not specially warned in the Bible 
against lending an ear to tradition ? Does not our Lord 
upbraid the Scribes and Pharisees for transgressing the 
commandment of God, and making it of none effect 
through their tradition ?\ Does not St. Paul warn the Co- 
lossians to beware lest any man should spoil them after 
the tradition of men?J And does not St. Peter speak 
of vain conversation received by tradition from the fa- 
thers ?”§ 

“Certainly,” said I; “but then, on the other hand, 
does not St. Paul praise the Corinthians because they 
kept the traditions as he delivered them?l| Does he 
not command the Thessalonians in the name of Christ to 
withdraw themselves from all who did not walk after the 
tradition which they had received from him 1 T[ Had 
he not already shown what he meant by the expression, 
when he said, ‘ Stand fast, and hold the traditions which 
ye have been taught, whether by word or our epistle V ” 

* See Lect. on the Prophet. Office of the Church, p. 152. 

t Matt.. XX. 2, 6. t Col. ii. 8. 

§ 1 Pet. i. 18. II 1 Cor. xi.2, mar. ref. 

IT 2 Thess. ii. 15, iii. 6. 


114 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


“ I admit the fact,” replied Mark ; “ and I assure you 
I have not been a little puzzled to know how to reconcile 
such apparently inconsistent and contradictory state- 
ments.” 

“ The difficulty,” said I. “ is'^ not a great one : taken 
by themselves, and quoted without reference to the con- 
text, these passages may seem at variance with each 
other. If, however, you will turn to your Bible, you will 
see it to be quite evident that in the texts you have ad- 
duced, our Lord and his apostles are condemning certain 
persons for upholding traditions opposed to God’s com- ' 
mandments, and as teaching such traditions principally 
to the exclusion of God’s laws, or as matters of equal or 
superior obligation. The traditions reprobated were 
human traditions. On the other hand, the traditions 
which the Holy Ghost, speaking by the mouth of his 
apostle, enjoined on the Corinthians and Thessalonians, 
were divine — were things which the Church had receiv- 
ed originally from the lips of inspired teachers, and which 
she was commanded to maintain uncorrupted to the end. 
You see the distinction?” 

“ I do,” said Mark, after referring to the several pas- 
sages in question ; “but still I do not think that it much 
helps your view of the subject. Granting that a refer- 
ence to tradition is not forbidden in Scripture, how are 
we to know what traditions are to be followed ? There 
are plenty of them, by all accounts, and by no means 
unanimous, if what I have somewhere read be true : have 
there not been fathers against fathers, and councils 
against councils ?” 

“ I have already answered the first of your questions ; 


SELF-CONFIDENCE. 


115 


for I have slated that the Church’s rule with respect to 
tradition is, antiquity, — universality, — catholicity, — the 
consent of all the faithful of all limes and all places. With 
regard to your last question, while I readily answer it 
in the affirmative, I deny the inference you would deduce 
from it, because we do not look on fathers or councils as 
infallible. They were, like ourselves, liable to all man- 
ner of errors and mistakes ; and we constantly maintain 
that any doctrine of theirs which contradicts Scripture is 
to be rejected at once. It is on other grounds that we 
make our appeal to them. We cite them only as compe- 
tent witnesses of the faith held by Christians in their 
days and if they are not to be trusted in this, of course 
they cannot be trusted in their testimony to the facts of 
Christianity ; and if you take up that position, you will 
be forced to' disallow the historical evidence of revelation 
altogether. But I must not pass over this objection of 
yours, without reminding you that these very differences 
among fathers and councils have their value. The more 
they differed in non-essentials, (questions of rites or dis- 
cipline, for instance,) the more regard is to be paid to 
them in the greater matters wherein they all agree.” 

“Why so?” inquired Mark. 

“ Because if they would not tolerate even the sem- 
blance of novelty in religion; — if they opposed them- 
selves vigorously to all persons (no matter what their 
station, age, or dignity) who were innovators ; — if they 
were ready to suffer any thing rather than admit what 
was new , — how can we imagine that they should all so 
unanimously agree in essentials, — in the great doctrines 
of Christianity, unless they were the old doctrines— the 


116 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


faith delivered once for all unto the saints? Their dif- 
ferences in inferior matters serve to strengthen the plea 
drawn from their unanimity in greater ones; and so are 
an argument on our side, rather than any objection 
against us.”* 

“But if the fathers are not infallible, Mr. Warling- 
ham, why are Barnabas or Clement to be more reve- 
renced than Luther or Calvin, — why are the reformers 
to be more reverenced than you or me ?” 

“ The value of their evidence consists chiefly in its 
antiquity. Polycarp or Clement, for instance, who had 
come in personal contact with the apostles themselves, 
are far more likely to know accurately the doctrines they 
maintained and the discipline they enjoined, than per- 
sons living in the sixteenth or nineteenth centuries. I 
repeat it again and again, our appeal is made to antiqui- 
ty, not because the ancients were wise and good, (for the 
wise and good may still, we trust, be found in the Church 
of Christ,) but because the nearer we go back to aposto- 
lic times, the more traces are we like to find of apostolic 
opinions and teaching.” 

“ Oh ! of course, Mr. Warlingham, we must all bow 
to the authority of the apostles, if we could find it, — for 
(to say nothing of their inspiration) they were able to tell 
the precise meaning which they had in their minds when 
they wrote the passages which we are disputing* about. 
But how are we to get at the apostles’ opinions ? Among 
the voluminous writings of the fathers, how are we to 
ferret out the truth ?” 

* Waterland on the Use and Value of Ecclesiastical Anti- 
quity, ch. vii. See Works, vol. v. p. 315. 


SELF-CONFIDENCE. 


117 


“If,” said Ij ‘‘the inquiry were now to be made for 
the first time, no doubt it would be extremely difficult, 
nay, perhaps almost impossible, to arrive at a satisfacto- 
ry decision ; but the fact is as well ascertained as any 
thing in history, that the Church of Christ has, from the 
first, adopted the very principle which I maintain to be 
necessary, if we would arrive at the truth. On all points 
where the meaning of Scripture is disputed, she has gone 
back to the recorded judgment of preceding ages. Her 
motto has been, ‘ Quod primum verum ’ — the nearer to 
the apostles, the nearer to the truth. She has appealed 
from the first to tradition ; never, of course, (like the Ro- 
manists,) thinking Scripture imperfect, and that tradition 
is supplementary to Scripture ; but elucidating Scripture 
by the testimony of those who lived in primitive times, 
and using tradition as the safest interpreter of Scrip- 
ture.”* 

“ Then, Mr. Warlingham, if I understand you rightly, 
the Church of England does not assert that any doctrine 
is necessary to salvation which has only the authority of 
the fathers, or of tradition, written or oral, to back it ?” 

“Just so. We do not bring forward the fathers ‘ as 
grounds, or principles, or foundations of our faith, but as 

* “ Catholic tradition teaches revealed truth, Scripture 
proves it; Scripture is the document of faith, tradition the 
witness of it; the true creed is the Catholic interpretation of 
Scripture, or Scripturally proved tradition; Scripture by it- 
self teaches mediately, and proves decisively ; tradition bj? it- 
self proves negatively, and teaches positively ; Scripture and 
tradition taken together are the joint rule of faith.” — Tracts 
for the TimeSj No. 78, p. 2. 


118 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


witnesses, and as interpreters, and faithful conveyers. 
We do not urge their authority, but their testimony. 
We do not take the ancients with us as infallible reason- 
ers, but as guides to preserve us in the path of catholic 
truth, and keep us in a safe interpretation of Scrip- 
ture.”* 

“ This may be all very well,” said Mark ; “ but, to my 
simple apprehension, the end of your system is, and must 
be, the admission of mere human authorities.” 

“ Do you mean,” I asked, “ that we are not to admit 
human explanations of Scripture ? Tf you do, you will 
soon find yourself in an extraordinary difficulty .” 

“ How so ?” said Mark. 

“ Because, if (casting aside all external aid) you take 
your Bible in your hand, and explain it to yourself, that 
explanation will be human to yow, or else it would not be 
human to those who may receive it from you,” 

“ Do you mean, then, to tell me that human explana - 
tions of Scripture are Scripture ?” 

“I will answer you,” I replied, “in the words of Wa- 

* “ It is a good argument for us to follow such an opinion, 
because it is made sacred by the authority of councils and ec- 
clesiastical tradition ; and sometimes it is the best reason we 
have in a question ; and then it is to be strictly followed. But 
there may be also at other times a reason greater than it that 
speaks against it; and then the authority must not carry it. 
But then the difference is not between reason and authority, 
but between this reason and that, which is greater ; for au- 
thority is a very good reason, and is to prevail, unless a 
stronger comes and disarms it, and then it must give place.” 
— Bp. Jeremy Taylor’s Liberty of Prophesying^ §10, p. 220. 


SELF-CONFIDENCE. 


119 


terland. We receive the evidence of tradition ; ‘ and if 
we thus preserve the true sense of Scripture, and upon 
that sense build our faith, we then build upon Scripture 
only ; for the seme of Scripture is Scripture."^ ”* 

“If, however, we are to follow tradition,” rejoined 
Mark, “ we must give up the use of our reason.” 

. “ By no means,” said I ; “ for, when we allow our- 
selves to receive tradition along with Scripture, we are 
in fact convinced or persuaded by argument, and that is 
hearkening to right reason.” 

“ Well, my dear old friend,” said Mark, good-humour- 
edly, “ you seem resolved to give me no quarter ; and I 
confess I am not prepared with further arguments against 
you : still it appears to me that your plan of expounding 
Scripture by tradition is quite unsuited to the mass of 
mankind. How are they to enter into such details ?” 

“The mass of mankind,” said I, “read little, and think 
less ; and so they are, no doubt, unqualified for doing 
that which all who can are bound to do ; but you must be 
pleased to recollect that the persons of whom you speak 
have the Church to direct them, — an authority whom (to 
say the least) it is better and safer to believe than to 
doubt. The great body of Christians have as much evi- 
dence that tradition has been received from the first, as 
they have of the authenticity of Scripture itself. They 
believe both on credible testimony: and there is no more 
weakness or credulity in hearkening to the voice of Catho- 
lic tradition, as conveyed and handed down in the creeds, 
the articles, and liturgy of the Church, than there is in 


* Waterland’s Works, vol. v. p. 316. 


120 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


receiving the Bible itself as the Word of God on the same 
testimony.’- 

“ The night wears on apace,” exclaimed Mark, as the 
chimes of the clock reverberated from one of the old tur- 
rets ; “ I dare say you will be glad of rest ; and I myself, 
deeply interested as I am, shall be glad to pause and 
think over all that has been said, before we proceed to 
other subjects ; but there is one question I must ask you 
before we part for the night. If, Mr. Warlingham, the 
opinions you maintain are true, what becomes of that 
leading sentiment of the reformers, that ‘ the Bible alone 
is the religion of Protestants V ” 

“ I think,” said 1, in reply, “ that the reformers would 
be a good deal surprised at many of the sentiments for 
which their descendants have made them answerable. 
They held that Scripture is the sole authoritative rule of 
the faith, and that tradition is wholly subordinate to it ; 
but they never (speaking generally) laid aside the use of 
tradition. On the contrary, the reformation itself was an 
appeal from the modern tradition of the Romanists to the 
tradition of the Church universal in ancient times. 
Nothing can be clearer than the language of the Church 
of England on the subject. Her instruction to her preach- 
ers is, that ‘ they shall, in the first place, be careful never 
to teach any thing from the pulpit to be religiously held 
and believed by the people, but what is agreeable to the 
doctrine of the Old or New Testament, and collected out 
of that very doctrine by the Catholic fathers and ancient 
bishops? ”* 


Canons, 1571. 


SELF-CONFIDENCE. 


131 


You conceive, then, Mr. Warlingham, that the Bi- 
ble was never meant to be its own interpreter ?” 

Not in any such sense as that men are to decide by 
their undirected reason what doctrines are to be drawn 
from it. But do not misunderstand me. I do not say, 
abstain from investigating for yourself the doctrines of 
the Bible ; but investigate in such a manner as may 
bring you to a safe conclusion. Be guided by the con- 
current voice of antiquity, not by some living human 
interpreter, yourself or your chance instructor. Never 
dream of such an absurdity as taking up your Bible, and 
working out a religion for yourself. The thing is impos- 
sible ; every thing from within and from without make it 
so. But even were it not, the Bible was never intended 
for such a purpose. It was not by Scripture, but by an 
antecedent process, preaching, — by laying the seeds of 
hereditary religion, that the truths of the Gospel were 
propagated and established. That hereditary religion 
you have received, and your duty is to try it, — not by 
your own weak and unassisted reason, but by the Bible, 
and the voice of antiquity expounding that Bible where 
its meaning is doubtful to you. Do not be misled by the 
fallacy of rejecting ancient tradition, and substituting that 
which is modern. Do not be deceived by that modern 
reverence for Scripture, which sets aside the evidence of 
antiquity, in order that it may obtain an unlimited liberty 
of interpreting and wresting the word of God to our own 
preconceived opinions. Give to the Bible the first place; 
to the Church, as its witness, the second ; to your own 
reason, the last. Your own reason is the judgment of an 
individual,— the witness of the Church is that of all the 
11 * 


122 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


faithful ; and that witness is not likely to lead you astray, 
so long as she follows the emphatic protest of the beloved 
disciple against novelties in doctrine : — ‘ Brethren, I 
write no new commandment unto you, but the old com- 
mandment which ye had from the beginning. The old 
commandment is the word which ye heard from the be- 
ginning.’ ”* 

“ Well, certainly, Mr. Warlingham, all this is suffi- 
ciently intelligible to an educated person ; but I don’t see 
what the uneducated are to do. Suppose some ignorant 
old woman in the village were to come to you to be satis- 
fied on the points we have been discussing, what would 
you say to her ?” 

1 should be disposed to answer as Melancthon did to 
his aged parent under similar circumstances. The poor 
woman, stunned and frightened with the din of reforma- 
tion, asked him how she was to win her way to heaven 
amid so many disputes. ‘ Go on, mother,’ said he, ‘ watch- 
ing and praying, and discharging your daily duties as you 
have done, and never trouble yourself about controver- 
sies.’ It was the advice of a wise man and a good.” 

^ 1 John ii. 7. 



SI frtentJl^ iSS^arnfiig. 

If thou fail’st to proye 
All Christ-like ways of gentleness and peace, 

Holding truth’s hand, and giving no release 
To lying spirits ; if love leave undone 
What love might offei, thou art no true son 
Of our dear ancient mother, who doth pray, 

Though mourning, for her children gone astray. 

Thoughts in Past Years. 


( 








CHAPTER VII. 


I RETIRED to bed, but not to rest. I had been too much 
interested and excited by the recent conversation to be 
inclined for sleep ; and so, after offering up my earnest 
prayers on Mark Fullerton’s behalf, I lay awake, reflect- 
ing on the course which it would be most expedient for 
me to pursue with him for the time to come. 

It was a great point gained to have induced him to 
open to me at all on religious subjects ; it was a greater 
still, that, apparently, he had not so fully examined the 
grounds of his opinions as his communications with Mil- 
dred Clifford had implied. His dashing, off-hand lan- 
guage to her had probably had its source in vanity. He 
had written for effect, — had been trying to say sharp 
things, and show off his own cleverness, and to surprise 
her with notions and views to which she had been unac- 
customed. So, at least, I hoped. “ After all,” said I to 
myself, “ this may be only the folly of a boy, who wants 
to be thought a man, — the workings of a mind a little daz- 
zled by its own importance, and misled by some mischie- 
vous advocate of free inquiry. It is very silly and wrong 
of him > but the evil will not be permanent. The fire is 
making for the moment a crackling among the thorns, 
but it will be speedily burnt out. He will soon discover 


126 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


that he has made a false step ; and now that he is removed 
from the immediate society of schismatics, and finds that 
he is only shocking where he meant to attract, he will 
gradually change his tone, and end by being a sound 
Churchman on conviction.” 

Thus I argued with myself, and for awhile succeeded 
in quieting my misgivings ; but it would not do. The 
more I thought over the evening’s conversation, the less I 
was satisfied. I could not be sure that I had gained any 
ground ; and I remembered, with pain, that (though for 
the reader’s sake I have not thought it necessary to give 
evidence of the fact) Mark reverted again and again to 
arguments which had been already answered, and that he 
brought forward his old objections as if unconscious that 
they had been refuted. He did not appear to wish to in- 
quire fairly or candidly. When beaten from one position, 
he directly took up another of perhaps a directly opposite 
nature ; he seemed disposed to maintain any notion, no 
matter how untenable, sooner than give in. He argued, 
indeed, good-humouredly, and in a gentleman-like man- 
ner ; but defeat made no impression on him. “ You may 
very possibly be right,” he more than once exclaimed, 
“ and I may be wrong ; but I do think it, and always shall 
think it.” 

Unfortunately, too, for himself, Mark had just that 
kind of cleverness and amount of knowledge which are 
most dangerous to their possessor : the one was mere 
fluency, the other superficialness. If he could bring for- 
ward a quotation of Scripture, for instance, that sounded 
pithy and apposite, he cared nothing for the context ; 
whether he was quoting fairly or unfairly, was all one to 


A FRIENDLY WARNING. 


127 


him. And then, his being naturally self-confident and 
self-willed was all against his being an humble recipient 
of instruction, or willing to acknowledge himself in error. 
My mind misgave me, that among many amiable quali- 
ties, I should find him at once shallow and obstinate. 

After much reflection, it seemed to me that the best 
plan I could adopt with him, was to lead him to speak to 
me openly of the circumstances which had induced him 
to become unsettled in his allegiance to the Church, and 
then to put, as strongly as possible, before him, what, at 
present, he did not seem the least to apprehend, — name- 
ly, the guilt of schism, and its deep offensiveness in the 
sight of God. 

Circumstances seemed to favour my design ; for the 
snow which had begun to fall during the night continued 
to descend so heavily during the earlier part of the day, 
that, instead of going home again immediately after 
breakfast, as I had originally intended, I was obliged to 
defer my return till a later period of the day. According- 
ly, I took an early opportunity of reverting to what had 
passed between us on the preceding evening. 

“You intimated to me last night,” said I, “that the 
inquiries you have been making of late might never have 
been made, if you had not gone to reside with Mr. Knew- 
stubs ?” 

“ Oh, yes ; while T was with my poor uncle Sykes in 
Northamptonshire, I never heard any language but that 
of blind unquestioning respect for the Church : he was 
quite of the old school, you know, — one that had no bet- 
ter reason for half the things he thought and did, than 


123 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


that his father had thought and done so before him. He 
was an excellent man, but very prejudiced.” 

“ Do you adduce the latter quality as a compliment, 
or the reverse ?” 

“ Oh, you are laughing at me, Mr. Warlingham. Pre- 
judices must be the sign of a narrow mind.” . 

“Why? can there not be good prejudices, as well as 
bad ones? Are we to love nothing, and believe nothing, 
till we can give a satisfactory reason why we love it or 
believe it?” 

“ Oh, I suppose we can hardly help ourselves in that 
respect j our prejudices are sown unconsciously, and grow 
up involuntarily on our parts : but surely it ought to be 
our endeavour to avoid taking opinions upon trust. At 
least, there is a great evil in it.” 

“ There is a great blessing attached to it,” said I. 

“ ‘ Thomas, because thou hast seen, thou hast believed : 
blessed are they which have not seen, and yet have be- 
lieved.’ ” 

“You do not mean that you are an advocate for 
hereditary religion — that you think a man should adopt 
such or such a faith merely because his parents held it ?” 

“ Certainly I do ; because the law of God requires 
you to listen to them, and authorizes you to obey them.” 

“ Well, but this would have made me a papist at 
Rome.” 

“ Of course ; and till by patient investigation, and 
living up to the rules of the Romish faith, you had 
found them contradictory to Scripture, and perilous to your 
soul, you would have done quite right to continue a Ro- ' 


A FRIENDLY WARNING. 


129 


manist. But you have led me far away from the subject 
about which I was inquiring, — the connection between 
your change of guardians and change of opinions.” 

“ Yes, it is quite true that I owe my present views to 
my residence at Pisgah Park. My uncle Knewstubs was 
always very kind to me ; and he is such a superior man 
— so unbigoted, has such a liberal mind, is such a lover 
of truth and independence — that it was quite impossible 
not to admire him.” 

“ Did he attempt to make you a proselyte to his own 
opinions 3” 

“No; housed to say, that he was for everybody’s 
thinking as they pleased ; he was for every body’s exer- 
cising their Christian liberty in the choice of their teach- 
ers ; his boast was, that he held out the right hand of 
fellowship to Church-people, as well as to his own sect ; 
and that, though he hated creeds and articles, and all the 
chains which had been forged to fetter human intellect, 
so long as he was not forced to subscribe to them hirnsell' 
he should look with pity and kindness on the weaker con- 
sciences who submitted to them.” 

“ The weak consciences are obliged to him,” said 1. 
“ But was his practice consistent with his theory ? I have 
known great spiritual tyranny consistent with such pro- 
fessions. Did he really not attempt to influence your 
judgment?” 

“ No ; he always said he had no fears but that I should 
arrive at the truth ; he was sure mine was not the sort 
of disposition that would submit to be kept in the dark. 
He persuaded me, I believe, to go to chapel in the first 
instance ; and he introduced me to Mr. Crisp, the minis- 
12 


130 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


ter ; but he never forced me to act against my conscience. 
Indeed, I flatter myself that neither he nor any other 
man could have done that.” 

“You have attended a dissenting place of worship 
regularly, I presume V* 

“Yes, latterly.” 

“ I suppose you heard there a good deal of ridicule and 
abuse thrown upon the Church and Church doctrines ?” 

“ Why, yes, Mr. Warlingham. Indeed, at first I found 
it quite unpleasant” 

“ And the Prayer-book was pretty severely criticised, 
no doubt?” 

“ The Independents,” replied Mark, “ are no admirers 
of set forms of prayer j but their chief objection to the 
Liturgy arose from the popery contained in it 

“ Well, well, we will discuss that matter, if you please, 
hereafter. What I now want you to tell me, is, how you 
were able to satisfy your own mind that you were not 
committing a very grievous sin in going to a dissenting 
place of worship at all ?” 

“ I cannot say, Mr. Warlingham, that I ever felt much 
scruple on that score. I went there because I was in- 
clined to believe that I should get more profit there than 
at church.” 

“Had you found any thing, then,” I asked, “in the 
Church- service, which you believed to be repugnant to 
God’s word ?” 

“ Why, no,” said Mark, hesitatingly, “ scarcely that 
perhaps ; but I certainly had not found all the profit at 
church which I might have reasonably expected.” 


A FRIENDLY WARNING. 131 

“And this you were more inclined to consider the 
Church’s fault than your own ?” 

Mark blushed, and was silent for a moment. “ At any 
rate,” he continued, “ 1 was well aware that I had expe- 
rienced nothing of that high tone of spiritual feeling and 
excitement which those who attend the prayers and 
preaching of Mr. Crisp so constantly spoke of, and which 
is such an evidence that the work of grace is going on in 
the heart.” 

“ I have yet to learn,” said I, very gravely, “ how 
feelings only can be an evidence of grace. The Bible 
bids us look to an external proof, as well as to an internal 
one. ‘ The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suf- 
fering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance.’ 
It is not the feeling excited, but the being holy, which is 
tlie proof of our growth in grace.” 

“ Well, but, at any rate, Mr. Warlingham, we require 
to be inspired with a taste for holiness. I believed that I 
should gain this*" more effectually at meeting than at 
church ; and so I felt justified in going to hear Mr. Crisp.” 

“ And so you would have been justified, if God had 
not given you a direct command to the contrary. But 
He has done so. God has forbidden you to leave the 
Church.” 

“ No doubt it is a great sin to leave the Church of 
Christ; but I only contemplated seceding from the Church 
of England, which is, I apprehend, a very different 
affair.” 

“Indeed! Why so?” 

“ Because the Church of England is a mere act-of- 
parliament Church.” 


132 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


“ By an act-of-parliament Church, I suppose you mean 
that we have a form of religion established by law, re- 
cognized by the state, and professedly, at least, offered to 
the acceptance of the nation at large.” 

“ Exactly so,” replied Mark. 

“ Then pray let me undeceive you immediately, if you 
really imagine that it is upon any of these grounds that 
the Church of England advances her claim to be consid- 
ered a true branch of the Church of Christ.” 

“ Oh, then she does not venture to assert that she is 
the Church of Christ — the only one 7 I rather expected to 
hear that claim set up.” 

“She asserts unequivocally,” said I, “that she is the 
Church of Christ in England — and the only one ; but it 
would be a contradiction in terms to maintain that the 
one holy Catholic Church, that which is ‘throughout 
all the world,’ can be restricted to one place. The Eng- 
lish Church is only one member of that body whereof 
there are many members ; but, if to-morrow the existing 
connexion between Church and state were dissolved — if 
‘ the Establishment’ ceased to be — if the clergy were driv- 
en from their churches, and made the houseless, homeless 
wanderers which so many desire to make them, — the 
Church of England would not lose one jot or tittle of her 
spiritual authority ; she would be the same Churchy would 
have a right to exact the same deference, reverence, and 
godly obedience as she does now. It is not her temporal 
power,(such as it is,) nor her endowments, nor the number 
of her adherents, no, nor her learning, nor her virtues, that 
make her what she is, but her having within her the marks 


A FRIENDLY WARNING. 


133 


and characteristics by which a tnie Church may be recog- 
nised.” 

“ And what are they inquired Mark. 

“ Even those which have been received from the begin- 
ning, and which the creeds have taught us j the Church 
is one, is holy, is catholic, is apostolical?’' 

“ But I am not going to take for granted the authority 
of the creeds.” 

“No more does the Church of England. She shows 
the grounds on which she defers to them, when she says 
in her eighth article that they ‘ ought thoroughly to be 
received and believed, ybr they may be proved by most 
certain warrants of holy Scripture.” 

“ But why not refer to holy Scripture at once ?” 

“ I am quite ready to do so, if you wish it,” said I. “ Do 
we assert then the unity of* the true Church as respects its 
members? Hear the language of St. Paul with regard to 
Christians ; ‘ they are,’ saith he, ‘ one body in Christ, and 
every one members one of another.’* And with respect 
to its teaching and doctrines, what can be clearer than 
the same apostle’s testimony, that there is ‘one faith ?’t 
Do you ask me, in the second place, to prove that the true 
Church is holy 7 I reply, that as He who founded her is 
holy, as (to use the words of Scripture) he hath ‘ called us 
with an holy calling, ’J and as His will is ‘ our sanctifica- 
tion,’§ so are the sacraments and ordinances of the Church 
appointed to a holy end, even the salvation of our souls. 
Am I called on to show that the true Church is catholic, 
or universal ? I remind you that her very commission is, 


* Rom. xii. 5. 
t 1 Thess.iv. 3. 


t Eph. iv. 5. 

§ 2 Tim. i. 9. 


12 ^ 


134 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


‘ to teach all nations.’* Finally, am I to demonstrate that 
the true Church is apostolical 7 I answer that, by the ad- 
mission of all parties, the Church was built on the founda- 
tion of the apostles ; and that Christ promised to be with 
them (that is, with themselves, and with those whom they 
should ordain as their successors), even to the end of the 
world. The true Church, therefore, is and must be apos- 
tolical : and since the Church of England derives its ori- 
gin from the apostles (having been founded, that is, by 
their preaching, or having been received into communion 
from the first with churches so founded, as having derived 
its origin from them) ; since it maintains the form of gov- 
ernment instituted by the apostles ; since it diligently in- 
culcates holiness on all its members ; since it holds by the 
one faith, the one baptism, the^one spirit, and the one 
Lord, — it establishes its claim to be considered the Church 
of Christ here in England; the English branch of the one, 
holy, catholic, apostolic Church.” 

“Do you mean, then, Mr. Warlingham, that every 
person in this country is bound to belong to the Church of 
England ?” 

“To be sure I do: and to assert further, that none 
can leave her communion without most imminent peril to 
his soul.” 

“ Well, you must excuse my saying so, but I think I 
never heard such an illiberal doctrine.” 

“ The important question for you to consider is, not its 
apparent liberality or illiberality in the eyes of the world, 
but its truth or falsehood when tried by the word of God.” 

“ Really, Mr. Warlingham, the more I thinli of what 
* Matt, xxviii. 19. 


A FRIENDLY WARNING. 


135 


you say, the more it amazes me. I read nothing about 
the Church of England in the Bible, but a good deal about 
the Church of God ; and I therefore humbly hope that 1 
shall be found to belong to the one, though I may cease to 
belong to the other. So as 1 have my portion in the 
Church invisible, I care for little else.” 

“Ah,” said I, “what you have just said shows me 
that you have got hold of a very common but a very dan- 
gerous notion.” 

“ Dangerous ! in what manner ?” 

“ With respect to the Church visible and invisible. 
You would say, I imagine, that all who profess and call 
themselves Christians are, in some sense, members of the 
visible Church ; that is, as distinguished from heathens, 
they are nominally members of a body, of which Christ is 
the head, and which receives the Gospel for a rule of life ?” 

Mark assented. 

“And by the invisible Church,” I continued, “you 
understand those who, having in this life walked worthy 
of the vocation wherewith they were called, will be here- 
after admitted to the joys of heaven ; when they whose 
Christianity consisted in profession only shall be exclud- 
ed?” 

“No doubt, Mr. Warlingham,” replied Mark; “but 
surely there is in this world an invisible Church likewise ; 
the faithful servants of God, of every sect and creed, un- 
discoverable by you and me ; undistinguishable to human 
eyes, but known to Him who seeth in secret His own 
elect?” 

“ I do not question,” I answered, “ that there are such. 
Holy men, I would hope, there are in every sect, who, 


136 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


having sinned in ignorance, and not wilfully, God will 
bring to glory : but I cannot consent to these unknown 
persons being called the Church ; because, so far as I 
can comprehend my Bible, the Church is a body in which 
unity is preserved ; and since the persons you have spok- 
en of are living, though ignorantly, in schism ; since 
they are of divers sects, and speak different things, — they 
cannot be to us ‘ the pillar and ground of the truth we 
have no warrant whatever lor classing them as members 
of the me true Church, as it was founded by the apostles.” 

“ I have been used of late to hear a very different 
view taken of the subject,” replied the young man ; “ for 
the denomination of Christians with whom I have latter- 
ly associated, hold that every congregation is a complete 
Church in itself, independent of all other bodies, and vested 
with an authority to regulate its own affairs, and resist all 
interference, even on the part of other Churches in com- 
munion with it.” 

“ I am aware that such are the views of the Congre- 
gationalists,” I replied ; “ but I must take leave to tell you 
that, for sixteen hundred years and more, no such sys- 
tem as theirs was to be found in any part of Christendom.” 

“ Why, my good sir, does not St. Paul speak of ‘ the 
Churches of Galatia,’ and ‘ the Churches of Judea T ” 

“ He does,” I answered ; “ but in the very epistle in 
which he speaks of these Churches of Galatia, he be- 
seeches the brethren ‘ by the name of our Lord Jesus 
Christ, that they all speak the same thing, that there be 
no divisions among them ; but that they be perfectly 
joined together in tlie same mind and in the same judg- 
ment.’ It is evident, therefore, that St. Paul never look- 


A FRIENDLY WARNING. 


137 


ed upon the several congregations of Galatia or Judea as 
distinct Churches in the same sense in which you under- 
stand the expression.” 

“ But were not these exhortations of St. Paul rather 
made with reference to those who caused divisions in the 
Church, than to those who were separated from it ?” 

“ Why, as none had separated from the Church in 
St. Paul’s day, your objection would be a valid one, if 
you would prove that separation is less sinful than dis- 
sension; but surely the one is the result of the other: and if 
dissension be sinful, the separation which has arisen from 
it is more so. I am quite ready to allow that in many 
of the epistles of St. Paul we find allusions to the exist- 
ence of that spirit among his converts which has in after- 
times broken forth into open schism. But let me ask 
how the apostle speaks of it ? is it not in one uniform 
tone of reprobation, and does he not reiterate injunction 
upon injunction, that there must be ‘no divisions’ among 
his converts ; that there be ‘ no schism in the body ;’ 
‘ that they be perfectly joined together in the same mind 
and in the same judgment ;’ that they be ‘ like-minded 
one toward another, that they may with one mind and 
one mouth glorify God V Does he not give it as the proof 
of a carnal mind, that while one said, I am of Paul, an- 
other said, I am of Apollos, and another of Cephas ? If 
the partisans of Apollos and Cephas at Corinth were 
condemned, is it likely that Independents, and Baptists, 
and Wesleyans, and the crowd of other sects who have 
broken the unity of the Church, and caused divisions 
among ourselves, would be unrebuked ?” 

“ Perhaps not,” answered Mark, “ if the cases are 


138 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


parallel; but since the apostle speaks of us as ‘being 
many,’ yet, one body, is it not probable that he would 
overlook minor points of difference ? and as there may 
be many Churches in one body, may not I be a member 
of the Independent Church, and you of the Established 
Church, yet both of us be still of the same body, the 
Church of Christ ?” 

“ No : for when the apostle speaks of ‘ Churches,’ he 
speaks indeed of a variety of C hristian congregations 
scattered over heathen countries ; but those congrega- 
tions were all of the same faith and fellowship. There 
was no such thing in the apostles’ time as two Churches 
in one place, the members of which would not worship 
together, or partake together of the body and blood of 
Christ our Saviour ; and as I have already shown you that 
the Church of England is the Church of Christ in Eng- 
land, the Independents who have separated from her com- 
munion cannot be looked upon as being in any other posi- 
tion than a most perilous one — namely, that of schismatics.” 

“ You seem to think a great deal of the guilt of schism, 
Mr. Warlingham : you appear to hold that they who dif- 
fer from the Church in some trifling matters, are only fit 
to be classed with open profligate transgressors of the 
moral law.” 

“If,” said I, in answer to this observation, “the 
Church of England be an apostolical Church, separation 
from it is just as sinful as separation from the Church of 
Corinth in the days of St. Paul; and as to the grounds 
of separation to which you have alluded, if tliey be tri- 
fling, so much the worse for the separatists. The less 
the points of difference between the Church of England 


A FRIENDLY WARNING. 


139 


and those who have withdrawn themselves from her, the 
greater their guilt in withdrawing, and the greater the 
peril in which they stand. The less the ground of the 
schism, the greater the sin. But you say 1 speak of 
schismatics as though their offence was equally great 
with that of the wilfully vicious. I am not aware that 1 
have made any such assertion ; though certainly I have 
a most awful sense of the guilt of schism. Yet you will 
do well to remember, that what I have not said, St. Paul 
has; for when he bid us ‘avoid’ those who caused divi- 
sions, he classes schismatics with ‘ fornicators, covetous, 
idolators, railers, drunkards, extortioners,’ with whom, 
as you well know, the servant of Christ is forbidden to 
keep company.” 

“You maintain, in short, that there is no salvation 
out of the Church 7” 

“ I maintain that the Bible only offers salvation in and 
through the Church. The Church alone has the sacra- 
ments to offer to the people, and the priesthood appointed 
to administer them duly. Without a due reception of the 
initiatory sacrament of the Church, there can be no as- 
surance that a man is made a member of Christ ; and if 
any man abide not in Christ, he is cast forth as a branch, 
and withered. Of those who ‘ separate themselves’ from 
the Church, St. Jude bears witness that they ‘ have not 
the Spirit ;’ and it is the Spirit alone who can keep us in 
the way of life.” 

“ Ah, well,” said Mark, reverting to his old practice 
of running away from the subject when he was hard 
pressed, by alleging objections which had been previous- 


140 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


ly answered — “ all this depends upon what is meant by 
the true Church.” 

“I have already shown you,” said I, ‘-what the true 
Church is j but it may be well that you should remem- 
ber what the true Church is not. That cannot be a true 
Church which has not bishops, priests, and deacons of 
the apostolical succession j that (as has been well said) 
is no true Church, which is a ‘ congregation gathered 
together any how, and worshipping any how, and 
governed any how, professing to believe the Bible, and 
interpreting it any how.’* Let those who call themselves 
Independents look to this. My dear friend, do you your- 
self look to it, for voluntary separation from the Church 
of Christ is a sin against our brethren, against ourselves, 
against God : a sin which, unless repented of, is eternally 
destructive to the soul. It is an offence^ the heinous na- 
ture of which is incapable of exagger ation^ because no 
human imagination and no human tongue can adequately 
describe its enormity.^ ”t 

‘‘ But how can I be guilty in God’s sight, Mr. War- 
lingham, if I leave the Church of England because I 
think the Independents keep the truer doctrine ; if I am 
persuaded that for this end their community was found- 
ed, and with this object continued ?” 

“If the Church of England,” said I, “has rejected 
what God has plainly revealed, if she openly contradicts 
and disobeys His commandments, she is not a true 
branch of the Church; she is apostate: but you bring 
* Faber on the Catholic Church, p. 12. 
t Palmer on the Church, vol. i. p. 55. 


A FRIENDLY WARNING. 


141 


no such charge as this against her ; you do not venture 
to say, do you, that your soul would be in peril if you 
continued in her communion 

“ No : my objection is mainly to some of her rites, 
and I believe she has some doctrinal errors. In short, I 
think I can get more personal improvement and spiritual 
edification elsewhere.” 

‘‘Well, then, I most solemnly warn you, that these 
things afford no excuse whatever for separating from her 
communion. You can get no improvement elsewhere, 
which will at all compensate for the sin of leaving her. 
You are not to do evil, that good may come. St. Paul 
did not allow the abuses at Corinth, or the errors of the 
Galatians, to be a ground for separation from those 
Churches. If you suppose the Church of England to be 
defective in her doctrine and practice, your duty is (so 
far as you can), to promote a purer system, and spe- 
cially to take heed to your own life and conduct j but so 
long as a pure ministry of the word and sacraments ex- 
ists, you cannot leave the Church without the greatest 
danger.''^ Look well, then, I entreat you, at the step you 
are about to take ; see the precipice on which you are 
standing. The world, indeed, may think lightly of the 
sin of schism, and the deceitfulness of your own heart 
may allure you to do what is pleasing to natural vanity, 
— set yourself up, that is, as one who is above prejudices, 
and is a free inquirer; but such pleas will not excuse 
your conduct, when He who is the Church’s Head shall 
hereafter come to be your Judge, and to inquire why 

* Palmer on the Church, vol. i. c. 4, § 2. 

13 


142 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


you have broken the unity of His Church. Pray God to 
give you humility ; pray Him to give you a distrust of 
your own judgment, and sense to see that they who once 
allow their minds to dispute and cavil, are sure, sooner 
or later, to reap the evil effects of it, in becoming liable 
to be tossed about by every blast of vain doctrine, and 
still to fall from bad to worse. God keep you from such 
a fate ! but, remember, I now warn you yet once and 
again, that at present you are in great danger of incur- 
ring it. And to use the admonitory words of Bishop 
Hall to the founder of that sect which you are so much 
inclined to admire, — ‘ Before God and His blessed angels 
and saints, we fear not to protest that we are undoubted- 
ly persuaded, that whosoever wilfully forsakes the com- 
munion^ government^ ministry^ or worship of the Church 
of England, are enemies to the sceptre of Christ., and rebels 
against His Church and Anointed? 

So saying, I brought the conversation to a close ; and 
when the snow-storm ceased, I returned homewards. 

* Bishop Hall’s Apology against the Brownists. Works, 
p. 539.. 



Youtfjful rrfals. 

Let me confess that we two must be twain, 

Although oTir undivided loves are one : 

So shall those blots that do with me remain. 

Without thy help, by me be borne alone. 

In our two loves there is but one respect. 

Though in our lives a separable spite. 

Which, though it alter not love’s sole effect. 

Yet it doth steal sweet hours from love’s delight. 

ShAK3P£ARE. 




\ 



I 





» 


s 



\ 


I 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Mildred Clifford’s position had now become exceed- 
ingly painful and distressing in many respects. Soon 
after Christmas, Mrs. Long had experienced another at- 
tack of paralysis, and was reduced to the most hopeless 
state of weakness and imbecility. She rather existed 
than lived ; she could rarely speak so as to be understood, 
was unable to feed herself, or even to turn round in bed, 
and was indebted to the attentions and assistance of 
others for every thing which she needed. 

Meanwhile, though she lay day after day and week 
after week in this pitiable condition, hovering, as it seemed, 
between life and death, her original constitution was so 
strong, that the medical attendants intimated that there 
was no immediate prospect of the poor sufferer’s release. 
She was liable, of course, to be carried off in a moment by a 
fresh seizure ; but then, on the other hand, it was quite 
possible that she might linger on for months in a state of 
gradual decay. What could be more distressing for an 
affectionate heart like Mildred’s than to be witness of such 
a miserable spectacle of living death ? What more wear- 
ing to the spirits than the incessant attention which the 
patient required from her tender and indefatigable nurse ? 

13 * 


146 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


It would in some degree, perhaps, have lightened Mil- 
dred’s cares, if there had been any one of her own sex at 
hand in whom she might have found the comfort and 
support of daily intercourse, open and unrestrained. 
But it unfortunately happened that this was not within 
her reach. Mrs. Long’s surviving relatives were two 
bachelor brothers, older than herself ; and these, though 
full of gratitude and kindness to Mildred, and duly appre- 
ciating her self-devotion to their sister, were not the kind 
of persons to lighten her anxieties, even had they resided 
on the spot, which they did not. 

In the village of Yateshull there was no one of her 
own situation in life, with the exception of Miss Prowle ; 
and Mildred, as my readers are already aware, was no 
favourite of hers. Miss Prowle, indeed, was all civility 
and obsequiousness, (as, to say truth, she generally was 
before the faces of those whom she abused most cordially 
behind their backs ;) and if Mildred had encouraged her, 
would have retailed for her amusement all the tattle of 
the village — 

“Intrigues half-gathered, conversation-scraps, 
Kitchen-cabals, and nursery-mishaps.” 

But Mildred had too good taste (to say nothing of Chris- 
tian principle) to listen with any patience to Miss Prowle’s 
budgets of scandal ; and though she checked the flow of 
ill-nature with much gentleness and tact in the first in- 
stance, she was ultimately obliged to be very explicit 
with her, and to tell her that she must entreat her to ab- 
stain from communicating matters with which Mildred 
felt that she had no concern, and about which she felt 


YOUTHFUL TRIALS. 


147 


no interest. This was a dire offence to Miss Prowle: 
but it would not have served her purpose to resent it 
openly. The only outward sign of displeasure which 
she permitted herself to exhibit, was, that whenever 
Mildred on any subsequent occasion happened to ask 
for information on any trivial matter, she was immediately 
seized with a fit of indomitable silence or mysterious 
caution. “ Some people,” she said, “chose to speak of 
her as a gossip ; so, for the time to come, she should 
take very good care what she said, and to whom she said 
it.” And she was more than once heard to declare, that 
sooner or later Miss Clifford might discover to her cost that 
there was some advantage in having a friend who knew 
what was going on in the world, and to vow, that if ever 
such a time arrived. Miss Clifford should find her as in- 
communicative as if she had been born deaf and dumb. 
We shall see, in the sequel, that she kept her promise. 

Meanwhile there was one person to whom Mildred 
was so deeply attached, that it might have been reasona- 
bly supposed he would have been the support and com- 
fort to her which she so much needed. But it seemed to 
have been decreed by Providence that Mildred should 
early learn that “ vain is the help of man,” and that in 
difficulties and trials the only true help is to be found in 
Him who hath made heaven and earth. “ Form your 
own character, my love,” had been the frequent advice of 
Mrs. Long to her in former 3^eais, “ and then you will be 
sure to find friends, or to make them.” The lesson was 
not lost. Mildred, young as she was, had in great meas- 
ure formed her own character ; and the circumstances of 
her early life, while they had served to call forth her natural 


148 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


energies, and taught her to act for herself, had likewise 
been the means, in the hand of her heavenly Father, of 
leading her to a decision of character beyond her years, 
and to a calm dep«ndence upon Him, which perhaps she 
would never have attained, if her path in life had been 
all smooth, and her friends all ready-made for her. 

The return of Mark Fullerton to Godsholme, (that 
event to which she had been looking forward with intense 
anxiety for months and years,) did not, when it actually 
took place, seem destined to realize the bright visions 
of this world’s happiness which her imagination had so 
fondly depicted. Perhaps it was not possible in the na- 
ture of things, that hopes so high as those which she had 
raised should ever be accomplished; perhaps such an 
union of hearts as that promised to be, was unsuited to 
the highest interests of both, and was forbidden in mercy, 
lest they should have become so wrapped up in each other 
as to have forgotten God : 

“ Such ties would make this life of ours 
Too fair for aught so fleet.” 

Be this as it may, no sooner had Mark returned to the 
Mynchery, than Mildred Clifford was the one object of his 
thoughts, and he lost no time in showing that the expres- 
sions of tenderness with which he had filled his letters had 
a deeper source than mere gallantry, or even than old 
friendship. In fact, (as I learned subsequently,) at an 
early interview he had poured out his whole soul to Mil- 
dred, and in asking the return of his affection, had given 
her the assurance that she was his first and only love, and 
that his heart had been hers for years. 


YOUTHFUL TRIALS. 


149 


There could be no question what Mildred’s own feel- 
ings were. She too had loved with the increasing love 
of years ; unconsciously at first, and then with the deep, 
devoted, absorbing attachment of which a woman alone is 
capable. He was every thing to her — had long been so; 
and now with a thrill of unspeakable delight she heard 
from his own lips that she was every thing to him. How 
bitter, then, was the revulsion, as the conviction forced 
itself upon her mind, that he was himself creating an 
obstacle to their union which her conscience told her was 
insuperable ! Truly hers was no easy task ; truly the 
present struggle between inclination and duty was no 
slight increase to poor Mildred’s sorrows. Happily for' 
her, she had never doubted what she ought to do ; she 
saw her way clearly before her, and was satisfied as to the 
course which it was right to adopt. There could neither 
be peace nor safety for her in uniting herself to one who 
was already in heart a seceder from the Church. 

It was a miserable alternative either way. How could 
she expect God’s blessing, if she linked her fortunes with 
one who was guilty of the sin of schism 1 How could 
she expect an hour’s happiness in after-life, if she reject- 
ed Mark, — Mark, who had loved her from her childhood, 
and had remained unchanged through long years of sep- 
aration ? These were her first and natural feelings ; but 
in a while she grew calmer, and then the very habit of 
acting upon principle, instead of impulse, seemed to pre- 
serve her in the right path. She earnestly prayed for 
light and guidance, (not as many do, who offer up similar 
prayers indeed, and then take the course they happen to 
like best' but) with steadfast resolve to act up to what 


150 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


upon deliberation she believed .to be right, let the event 
be what it might. 

And having thus resolved during the brief space for 
consideration which she had asked of her lover, she told 
him fairly and unreservedly, that though her heart was 
his, she dared not at present promise him her hand. She 
could not, she said, take a step which might involve them 
both in misery. He had spoken so decidedly of his ob- 
jections to the Church of England, of his intentions to 
separate himself from its pale, that she felt he was already 
at heart a seceder from it ; and with a dissenter she never 
would marry. Her own mind was made up irrevocably 
in favour ol' Church-principles ; she was not vain enough 
to suppose that she could effect any alteration in his opin- 
ions ; and for people to unite themselves for life while 
their views on the most important of all points were com- 
pletely at variance, would be to lay the foundation of 
certain unhappiness. To take the matter in the very 
lowest point of view, there could be no comfort in such an 
union; and as a Churchworaan, she felt absolutely for- 
bidden so to contract herself. She entreated him for the 
present to speak no more on the subject ; she could make 
him no promise : she entirely absolved him from any thing 
of the nature of an engagement ; he was wholly free. 
While Mrs. Long lived, she would never leave her ; and 
it was better not to speculate on the future. 

With a cheek deadly pale, but in calm low accents, 
poor Mildred thus addressed her lover ; and if as she 
proceeded her eyes filled with tears, and she at length 
almost gasped for utterance, as she seemed to herself to 
be casting from her every hope and prospect of happiness 


YOUTHFUL TRIALS. 


151 


in life, who will call]such weakness culpable? who will not 
rather admire and love a character, in w^hich acute and 
sensitive feelings were disciplined so early to the ways of 
self-denial ? 

Mark Fullerton listened with all a lover’s impatience, 
added to the natural impetuosity of his own disposition ; 
and therefore it need hardly be said that he was a very 
bad listener. It was impossible, however, to mistake the 
general drift of what Mildred said ; and the first feeling 
that resulted from it was that of unqualified surprise. To 
be rejected, not because he was not loved, but because 
he had asserted his own right to think for himself in reli- 
gious matters, — this was a contingency which he certainly 
had never contemplated ; and his conscience perhaps 
warned him, that at the very time he had been speaking 
undutifully of the Church to Mildred, he had been talking 
more for effect, and to gratify his own vanity, than be- 
cause he had thoroughly studied and understood what 
he was talking about. It was a bitter reflection, that the 
turn which things had taken was simply and solely the 
result of his own proceedings. A year before, he could 
have had no reasonable doubt that he both possessed 
Mildred’s affections, and that she would have accepted 
him without one moment’s hesitation ; nor could he now 
doubt that he had her whole heart. She had refused him 
on conscientious scruples alone. Had there been any 
thing to allege against his moral character, he could 
have understood it ; had he been a papist or an infidel, he 
could have understood it ; but to make his adherence to, or 
secession from, the Church of England (so long as he at- 
tached himself to some Protestant community) a point of 


152 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


consequence, where two people’s hearts were concerned, 
was quite unintelligible. He had lived with latitudina- 
rians, and learned to use their language, and adopt their 
thoughts, till he had altogether ceased to look upon 
schism as a sin. To him, therefore, Mildred’s scruples 
seemed not only overstrained, but the very essence of all 
that was bigoted and illiberal. He argued, he protested, 
he expostulated. Now he tried to turn her by profes- 
sions of the depth of his attachment ; now he endeavoured 
to laugh her out of her opinions. But Mildred was firm. 
So then, like a spoiled child, (as indeed he was,) he grew 
angry, and called her firmness obstinacy, and her calm- 
ness want of feeling. And then (for ' 

“ To be wroth with one we love 
Doth work like madness in the brain,”) 

he left her with words of unkindness and reproaches, 
which, unjust as they were, were nevertheless hard to bear. 

It was (as I subsequently learned) a few days after 
this interview between Mark and Mildred, that I called 
at Mrs. Long’s, and was more painfully struck than ever 
at the alteration in Mildred’s appearance. Thin and 
careworn she had looked before, but she was now evi- 
dently ill ; and if she did not seem as pale and listless as 
hitherto, it was only because fever had given brightness 
to her eye and a hectic flush to her cheek. I felt so un- 
easy about her, that I entreated her to lose no time in 
getting medical advice; and added, that it had really 
become an absolute duty that' she should take more re- 
laxation, and not ruin her health by such close attention 
to Mrs. Long. It was evident that my alluding to the 


YOUTHFUL TRIALS. 


153 


subject pained her. She should be better, she said, in a 
day or two ; and she seemed desirous to speak of any 
thing else rather than herself: but her whole manner 
was unnatural, and her forced calmness was so unlike 
her usual quiet way, that I was soon convinced that the 
mind was suffering more than the body; and, without 
hesitation, (for there could be no indelicacy in such an act 
on my part,) I entreated her to give me her confidence, 
and speak to me openly. A burst of tears was at first 
her only answer, but after a while she recovered herself, 
and then she told me all that had taken place. 

“ I never can be happy again,” she exclaimed ; “ of 
that I am well aware : but if I felt sure that I had done 
what I have done in the right manner, I should have 
nothing to reproach myself about. I have only said what ^ 
I believed, and still believe it was my bounden duty to 
say ; yet some unnecessary offence I must have given, 
some hasty word I must have spoken, or he would never 
have parted from me in such bitter anger, — he, who was 
always so affectionate ! Oh ! Mr. Warlingham, he has 
never been near me ; he has never written to me ; he has 
never even sent me a message. It v/as on Tuesday that 
he was here, and to-day is Saturday. It seems to me as 
if years of miserable existence had been crowded into 
that interval. Surely, if we could be no more to each 
other, we might still have been as brother and sister. 
And Mark’s is such a kind, generous nature, in spite oi 
his hasty temper, that I cannot think he could lightly give 
up the affection of years. Oh, I am sure he would not 
He must have misunderstood me, or,! have been very 
very wrohg.” And Mildred’s tears burst forth afresh. 

14 


154 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE, 


I was deeply moved at the poor girl’s affliction ; and 
not the less so, that I knew not what apologies to make 
for Mark. Apparently, his conduct was both unkind and 
unmanly ; and I could not help feeling shame and indig- 
nation. I could only remind Mildred that her lover’s 
vanity had, no doubt, been deeply wounded ; and that 
she could not but be aware that vanity was his besetting 
sin. “Do not let us, however, judge him hastily,” said 
I ; give him time to come to better thoughts ; and I make 
no doubt, when he does see you again, that his very first 
words will be those of regret that he had not sooner 
mastered his pique and disappointment, and shown you 
that he respects you the more for the very decision you 
have made against him. I trust that he has too, high 
principles not to do this ; I confidently hope that his bet- 
ter nature will prevail, and there will be no permanent 
interruption of your former friendship with each other.” 

“And do you not think, then, Mr. Warlingham, that I 
have done wrong? you would have counselled me to act 
as I have done ?” 

“ My dear Mildred,” said I, “ this matter is one on 
which I could not have given you counsel. To have ad- 
vised you either way would have been no act ol’ true 
friendship; nay, it would have been quite unpardonable. 
It is a point which could only be decided by yourself. 
But now that you have made your decision, (a decision 
which your heart must tell you has been uninfluenced by 
any motives but the purest and holiest,) I am quite ready 
to tell you what I think about it ; and when you ask me 
whether, in my opinion, you have done wrong, I reply, 
that my unqualified opinion is, that you have acted nobly ; 


YOUTHFUL TRIALS. 


155 


as becomes the principles in which you have been 
brought up ; as becomes a Churchwoman and a Chris- 
tian. You have sacrificed inclination to duty, present 
happiness to the desire of acting up to what you believe 
to be right. In one word, you have chosen the path of 
self-denial ; and they who walk therein have an unfail- 
ing promise from Him whose word is sure, and from 
which, even in the present acuteness of your distress, you 
cannot fail to derive consolation. ‘ There is no man that 
hath left house, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or 
mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my sake and 
the gospel’s, who shall not receive manifold more in this 
present time, and in the world to come life everlasting.’ ”* 
“ Oh, Mr. Warlingham, you speak far too favourably 
of what I have done ; and indeed my conscience tells me, 
that so far fiom deserving praise, I have allowed myself 
to get into a sad perturbed state. I have lately read 
somewhere that the safe rule of Christian conduct (so 
far as this world is concerned) is, ‘ to hope nothing, to 
fear nothing, to expect any thing, to be prepared for 
every thing.’ I am sure, if that be true, I am in a very 
different frame of mind from what I ought to be. And 
yet,” continued she, after a short pause, “ even at this 
moment I am not insensible to the many blessings which 
claim my thankfulness; and, believe me, I am thankful; 
I am thankful that I have any thing which I can sacrifice 
to God, and thereby testify my faith and affection ; I am 
thankful for the happiness I have so long enjoyed ; thank- 
ful for the happiness which yet remains to me. I do not 


Mark x. 29 ; Luke xviii. 29. 


156 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


mean to give way to weakness and sickly feeling. I will 
exert myself. And I trust and think that in a few days I 
shall be what I ought to be. I will take my Prayer-book 
in my hand, and there I know I shall find what will 
soothe excitement, and teach me to forget myself in com- 
munion with the Church of Christ.” 

“May God direct and comfort you, my dear young 
friend, and give you strength to bear that cross cheer- 
fully and manfully, which all must take up daily who 
would be true disciples of their crucified Lord !” 

As I said these words, I rose hastily from the table at 
which we were sitting, and turned to the window, not 
caring to show the emotion I was really feeling. As I 
did so, I saw Mark Fullerton on horseback in the dis- 
tance, riding slowly towards the house. I stood gazing 
for a moment to satisfy myself that I was not mistaken; 
and then, immediately crossing the room, without giving 
any intimation of his approach to Mildred, I took my leave 
of her ; and, hurrying down stairs, avoided a meeting with 
Mark, by going through the shrubberies at the back of 
the house. 

How much, thought I, depends upon this day’s meet- 
ing ! and what a happy termination of all our anxieties 
will it be, if, through Mildred’s gentle influence, Mark 
should be roused from his perilous sleep of folly and self- 
confidence ! Surely he must learn a lesson of humility 
and true wisdom from that poor girl’s exemplary behav- 
iour. Wealth, prosperity, affection,— all that the world 
most esteems, — all that would be most captivating to a 
young creature’s heart, have been set before her, and 
been rejected for conscience-sake. How sorely must she 


YOUTHFUL TRIALS. 


157 


have been tempted to act otherwise ! How friendless 
will be her condition when Mrs. Long dies ; how narrow 
her means ; how difficult and delicate even is her present 
position ! All these things were against her ; but habits 
of self-denial, and steady Church-principles, have kept 
her in a consistent course. Be the issue what it may, I 
am sanguine she will do right. A reconciliation is proba- 
bly taking place at this moment. What will be the next 
step? If Mark’s vanity and obstinacy do not. get the 
better of him, he will be gradually led back to the paths 
of safety and truth. If they rfo, he will try to make Mil- 
dred a dissenter : but he will try in vain ! 



14 * 





t 


jj'orms antJ iFormuIarfca, 


A path of peace amid the tangled grove, 

A moon-lit way of sweet security — 

Blight holydays that form a galaxy 
To make a road to heav’n — strains from above, 
Whereon the spheres of duty kindlier move, 
Drinking pure light and heaven-born harmony, — 
Such is the path of thy calm Liturgy j 
Ancient of mothers, in parental love 
Daily unwinding from thy annual maze 
Treasures that wax not old, whence still may grow 
Fresh adoration. 


The Cathedral. 



I 




CHAPTER IX. 

The next day was Sunday, — one of those bright, warm 
February days, when Nature for a moment casts off her 
sullen winter frown, and every living thing rejoices in the 
smile of sunshine and cloudless skies. I felt sure that I 
should have a numerous congregation ; and I had scarce- 
ly left home for church, before I perceived that my antici- 
pations were in the way of being verified. High and low, 
rich and poor, one with another, were all turning their 
steps the same way. Here I overtook a joyous band of 
children, bowing and curtseying, their chubby cheeks 
beaming with health, and looking as though they were 
only prevented from a game of romps by the dread of 
soiling their Sunday-clothes. There I passed by two or 
three infirm parishioners, whom I had not seen at Church 
for months, but who now, like the half-torpid bees in 
their own cottage-gardens, were leaving their winter- 
quarters, and, wending their way leisurely, supported by 
stick or crutch, were halting ever and anon to bask in the 
genial ray, or to say a word of greeting to a neighbour. 
And then the change of dress! The grey cloaks, the 
stuff gowns, the pattens and umbrellas, were all discard- 
ed ; and the bonnet, with its gay ribbons, or the smart 
chintz, or smarter shawl, which had been laid aside for 
many a day, were once more brought to light. In short 


162 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


the road to church was all innocent cheerfulness and 
gaiety. Oh, what a happy, blessed sight is the crowd 
of simple villagers in some yet uncontaminated rural dis- 
trict, 

“ bending, 

Through England’s primrose meadow-paths, their way. 
Towards spire and tower, midst shadowy elms ascending, 
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallow’d day !” 

They only who can appreciate the charms of a coun- 
try life, — who (to use the expression of one of our old 
divines, who was often called from his quiet village to 
more busy scenes) “ love to be among the russet coats,” 
— who, as Christians, remembering that we are members 
one of another, would cherish and strengthen the bands 
which unite rich and poor, — they, in a word, who live 
among their own people, and do good among them, and 
take an interest in them and their feelings, — these are 
the only persons who can join with any thing like Her- 
bert’s depth of feeling, when he apostrophized Sunday, — 

“ O day most calm, most bright ! 

The fruit of this, the next world’s bud ; 

Th’ indorsement of supreme delight. 

Writ by a Friend, and with his blood ; 

The couch of time ; cares balm and bay : — 

The week were dark, but for thy light ; 

Thy torch doth show the way.” 

It was with these lines in my thoughts that I entered 
my church ; and great indeed was my satisfaction, (and, 
I confess, great my surprise,) when, on looking round, I 
saw Mark Fullerton seated in Mrs. Long’s pew with Mil- 
dred Clifford. Even at a moment when I would fain have 


FORMS AND FORMULARIES. 


163 


kept my mind exclusively to thoughts connected with the 
sacred duties in which I was about to be engaged, I 
could not help letting my attention wander to the circum- 
stances of the persons before me. Was the reconcilia- 
tion that had evidently taken place complete ? That 
there had been no sacrifice of principle on Mildred’s part 
was evident. Was Mark’s presence at church a proof of 
the influence that she was gaining over his mind ? Time 
would show. Meanwhile I could only breathe a hurried 
mental prayer, that such might be the case. 

Upon leaving the church at the termination of the 
service, I found my two young friends waiting for me in 
.-the churchyard, and I fancied that I read hope and happi- 
ness in Mildred’s expressive countenance. The usual 
greetings over, she proposed that I should return with 
them to Mrs. Long’s. 

“There will be plenty of time, you know, Mr. War- 
lingham,” said she, smiling, “for you to eat your 
luncheon with us, even though there should be a sermon 
to be read over, and the school-children to be catechised 
before evening service. You must not say no ; I will 
hear of no refusal.” 

I willingly consented ; for it rejoiced my heart to see 
her looking like herself again ; and I felt as if an oppor- 
tunity might now be afforded me of doing good. 

“Why, Mr. Warlingham,” exclaimed Mark, as he 
turned towards me, after a few moments’ pause, “I 
hardly knew Yateshull church again. To be sure, it is 
six or seven years since I was in it ; but you have re- 
paired and restored it, till it is hardly like the same 
place.” 


164 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


“Oh!” said I, laughing, “you miss the red-brick 
chimney that ran along the buttress to the top of the 
tower, and you have found out that we have scraped off 
the whitewash in the interior. I assure you these altera- 
tions got me into no slight trouble. My friend Mrs. Old- 
ham has never forgiven me. The chimney was built, 
and the whitewash was laid on, while her grandfather 
was churchwarden ; and, in short, as she emphatically 
expresses it, she never could abide changes. So I am in 
great disgrace, 1 fear, in that quarter. Perhaps you are 
on the Oldham side of the question ?” 

“ No, indeed,” answered Mark j “ I think both the 
exterior and the interior of the building much improved.” 

“It is more decent than it was,” said I; “but it is 
still very far from what God’s house ought to be. How- 
ever, I must be patient: the parish has done its part 
handsomely, and has agreed to the necessary repairs 
with great cheerfulness and unanimity. We are not 
tormented here (I thank God for it!) by dishonest people, 
who resist Church-rates.” The epithet escaped my lips 
unintentionally ; but having said it, I could not retract. 

“Dishonest!” exclaimed Mark, as the colour mount- 
ed in his cheeks ; “ why do you call them dishonest?” 

“Because a man who takes a property with the 
understanding that it is liable to be rated, and then re- 
fuses to pay his rates, is just as much guilty of a breach 
of the eighth commandment as if he had committed any 
other act of fraud.” 

“ To judge from his countenance, this view of the 
case was not quite in accordance with Mark’s adopted 
opinions: however, he made no direct reply, but only 


FORMS AND FORMULARIES. 


165 


said, — “ The parish must have been put to a very heavy 
expense ; has it not ?” 

“ I should say, T fear it has, if I did not feel that it 
was a very great honour and privilege to any person to 
be allowed to devote a portion of their substance so im- 
mediately to God’s glory as in the repair of their parish- 
church. I am happy to say, however, that more than one 
of my good neighbours, in speaking on the subject to me, 
have said, that they are conscious how much they owe to 
their predecessors who built the church; and therefore 
they feel that the least they can do is to keep it in good 
repair for those who come after. Besides, they say, 
they have had no expenses connected with the church for 
thirty or forty years ; and consequently it is but reason- 
able to expect some outlay now. So, since they know 
that God loveth a cheerful giver, they have given neither 
grudgingly nor of necessity.” 

“ It must be a great comfort,” said Mildred, “to have 
such persons co-operating with you.” 

“ It is indeed,” I replied, “ a subject of daily happi- 
ness and daily thanksgiving.” 

“ Have you much more to do,” she asked, “ in the 
way of repairs ?” 

“ Why,” said I, “ Yateshull church, like many other 
rural churches in this neighbourhood, was so fast falling 
into decay, that in another half-century it must have been 
utterly ruinous. However, I trust that in our case the 
evil has been taken in time, and that if the parish will go 
on for a year or two longer (for, on all accounts, it is de- 
sirable to do these things gradually) with the repairs of 

15 


!6G TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 

the fabric, it will be in a condition to stand for as many 
generations as it has stood already.” 

• “ But what do you intend to do about the ornamental 

parts,” asked Mark ; the non-essentials j the restoration 
of what has been mutilated, as well as the repairs of 
wdiat is dilapidated ?” 

“ Oh,” said I, “ I do not ask the parish to find what may 
be called ‘ the luxuries of religion.’ These must be free- 
will offerings ; these things must be left to individual 
piety. Get the fabric of a church into substantial repair ; 
show that you are ashamed to have God’s house damp, 
and dirty, and desolate — the most forlorn and neglected 
building in the parish ; show that you take a delight in 
repairing, — that you do it for conscience-sake — as an act 
of worship ; act yourself, and teach others to act, upon 
higher principles than those on which the covetous, cold- 
hearted world around us acts, and all the rest will follow 
in due course. Depend upon it, Christian charity, Chris- 
tian liberality, is not extinct; it only wants to be called 
forth. The spirit which endowed cathedrals yet lingers 
among us. The time will come when the people will 
once more offer willingly ; and then we may restore nobly 
all that in the miseries of the rebellion, and under Puri- 
tan misrule, was laid even with the dust.” 

“Ah, then, Mr. Warlingham,” said Mildred, with ea- 
gerness, “you would fill your windows with painted 
glass, renew the oak carvings, and restore the broken 
tombs and tabernacle-work to their ancient beauty ?” 

“ To be sure I would, and will, if I can find the 
means.” 

“Well, I hope when you come to this part of your 


FORMS AND FORMULARIES. 


167 


task, you will abolish that unsightly mass of pews, which, 
I must say. disfigures your church at present.” 

’“I will try hard,” said I ; “but there is more of pride 
and prejudice, and little, mean, bad passions to be con- 
tended with on this subject of pews,'^ than almost any 
other connected with the Church. And, strange to say, 
the passion for pews is restricted to one class only. To 
the highest and the lowest in worldly rank it seems a 
matter of indifference (so far as my experience goes) 
how they are accommodated; they are quite satisfied 
with open sittings. It is the middle class who are the 
great sticklers for pews. Why and wherefore they 
should love to squeeze themselves together by fours and 
sixes in large packing-boxes, except that they fancy there 
is something dignified in exclusiveness, I never could 
conceive. I am quite sure they would be ashamed to be 
so huddled together in their own parlours.” 

“ Y et they cannot but know that in God’s house we 
are all equal ?” 

“ One would suppose so,” said I ; “ and I hope by de- 
grees all members of the Church will be brought to feel 
that there is something very inconsistent with Christian 
humility in the use of pews. When I find a person in- 
clined to assert the contrary, I bid them read the begin- 
ning of the second chapter of the epistle of St. James : it 
seems to meet the question exactly.” 

“ Well, Mr. Warlingham,” observed Mark, “ I think 
you are quite right on that point ; but you must excuse 
me for saying, that all this restoring and ornamenting 
which you talk of, seems to me a very unimportant mat- 
ter; it is laying too great a stress upon little things.” 


168 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


“ Certainly it would be so, if you omitted those of 
greater importance ; but I am all along supposing them 
to be duly attended to. It has been well remarked, that 
‘ he is no true philosopher, nor a true Christian, who at- 
tends not to little things;’ and South puts the matter 
upon the true footing, when he says, ‘I can account 
nothing little in any church which has the stamp of un- 
doubted authority, and the practice of primitive antiquity, 
as well as the reason and decency of the thing itself to 
warrant and support it.’ ” 

“But, after all, Mr. Warlingham, the best temples 
and the costliest which we can offer to God are our sanc- 
tified souls and bodies. The Almighty is looking at our 
hearts, and at the spirit in which we offer our prayers ; 
not at the church in which they are offered, nor at the 
forms which accompany them.” 

“ Of course,” I replied. “But, then, as Hooker says, 

‘ God, who requireth the one as necessary^ accepteth the 
other also as being an honourable work.’ No doubt He 
would hear earnest prayer offered by us in an open field 
or on a hill-side ; no doubt a clergyman may do his duties 
as well in a dirty surplice as in a clean one ; no doubt 
the waters of holy baptism may be as efficacious when 
poured from a broken pipkin, as from the font of sculp- 
tured marble ; no doubi the benefits of the blessed sacra- 
ment of the eucharist may reach the hearts of the faithful 
as surely, though the elements were delivered from a 
pewter cup and platter, as from the paten and chalice of 
pure gold. But is there not something which is abso- 
lutely revolting in the thought that creatures sustained 
by God’s bounty, and daily receiving from Him a thou- 


FORMS AND FORMULARIES. 


169 


sand blessings, should grudge to dedicate to His service 
of that which He has given them ? should be sparing, 
and niggardly, and ungenerous ? that while God’s house 
and services are thus dishonoured by slovenliness and 
poverty, our own houses are crammed with luxuries ? 
Should we not shudder at the bare thought of having 
our dwellings in the same condition as our churches ? 
O, shame, shame, shame! that we should act as though 
the worst of every thing, and the cheapest of every thing 
were good enough for God I that we should give our- 
selves the benefit of our extravagance, and Him of our 
frugality ! Not such was the feeling of the saints of old, 
who built and endowed our churches and cathedrals; 
not such the feeling of the reformers, who bequeathed us 
the homily ‘ for repairing, and keeping clean, and comely 
adorning of churches not such the feeling of David, 
when he reproached himself, and said, ‘ See, now I dwell 
in a house of cedar, but the ark of God dwelleth within 
curtains not such the feeling of Haggai, when he ut- 
. tered his stern expostulation, ‘ Is it time for you, O ye, to 
dwell in your ceiled houses, and this house lie waste V ”t 

“But how,” said Mark Fullerton, “are persons of 
limited fortunes, those who do not dwell in houses ‘ ceiled 
with cedar and painted with vermillion,’ — how are they 
to find means of contributing as largely to church-build- 
ing and church-restoring, as, in your view of the case, 
duty requires ?” 

“ Where there is a will, there is a way. When Eras- 
mus was poor and wanted books, he said his plan should 


2 Sam. v.l. 2. 


15 * 


t Hag. i. 4. 


170 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


be to buy books, and then clothes. And if we are really 
zealous to promote God’s glory, our poverty will not 
stand in our way. If we have not means, we.shall make 
them by self-denial ; by conquering that self^ which at 
present is every thing to us ; by learning what the real 
amount of Christian alms-giving should be; by reflecting 
that if we do not proportion our alms to our means, we 
are tempting God to proportion our means to our alms ; 
by pursuing, in short, a totally different system from that 
which is the fashion of these times ; not giving a solitary 
guinea here and there at hazard, with our name, and style, 
and titles, but prescribing to ourselves some definite ob- 
ject, and then in secrecy and self-denial laying up in store 
till our units become tens, and our tens become hun- 
dreds.” 

‘‘ And when you have done all this,” suggested Mark, 
“ and have built your church or restored it, what guaran- 
tee have you that it may not in a few years be brought 
once more to the same state of desolation to which it has 
been heretofore exposed; that rebellion or revolution 
may not come upon your Zion once more ; that the ‘ ad- 
versaries’ may not ‘ roar in the midst of the congrega- 
tion,’ and the sanctuary be polluted and laid waste ?” 

“None whatever,” I replied. “ If, however, such disas- 
trous days should come, and I am myself among the living, 
my duty will be to set to work again cheerfully and pa- 
tiently, to repair what has been broken down. If, as I 
trust I may be, I am in my quiet grave, I see no reason 
to doubt that God will put it into the hearts of those who 
may come after, to do that by our labours which we are 
doing now by those of our predecessors. I am persuaded 


FORMS AND FORMULARIES. 


171 


that such spirits will be found among us to the end ; for 
the Church had long ago a promise with respect to her 
faithful children, ‘ They that shall be of thee shall build 
the old waste places ; thou shalt raise up the foundations 
of many generations, and thou shalt be called the repairer 
of the breach, the restorer of the paths to dwell in.’ But, 
be the end of these things what they may, we shall by no 
means lose our reward, if, keeping before us the awful 
thought that the salvation of future generations may de- 
pend upon us, we grudge neither cost, nor time, nor pains 
to transmit uninjured in all its parts the deposit we have 
received, the spiritual treasures of the Church of God ” 

“You speak, Mr. Warlingham,” said Mildred, “as 
though you anticipated an approaching lime of trouble 
for the Church.” 

“Tribulation and the world’s hatred are the portion 
which our Lord hath bidden us expect. They have been 
the Church’s companions hitherto, and no doubt they will 
be her companions to the end. It is well, therefore, that 
we should be prepared.” 

“No doubt,” exclaimed Mark, interposing; “but it 
seems to me, that so far as the Church of England is 
concerned, she might put off the evil day to an indefinite 
period, if she would only adapt herself a little more to the 
spirit of the times, and try to conciliate those who differ 
from her by somewhat more of liberality, and by making 
some wholesome alterations in the Liturgy.” 

“ Oh why, dear Mark,” said Mildred, “ would you 
wish to have the Prayer-book altered ? Surely it is all 
that is holy and pure in doctrine— surely it cohtains all 
that Christian men can need to lead them on the path to 


172 


TALES OP THE VILLAGE. 


heaven ! If we do not profit by it, the fault can rest no 
where but in ourselves : 

‘ It is an armoury of light; 

Let constant use but keep it bright, 

You’ll find it yields 

To holy hands and humble hearts 
More swords and shields 
Than sin hath snares or hell hath darts : 

Only be sure 
The hands be pure 

That hold these weapons, and the eyes 
Those of turtles, chaste and true. 

Wakeful and wise, — 

Here is a friend shall fight for you : 

Hold but this book before your heart. 

Let prayer alone to play its part.’ 

“ It is easy to quote poetry,” said Mark, impatiently? 
“ in support of any notion ; perhaps the more foolish, the 
more poetical. Of course the poetry of religion is in fa- 
vour of the Liturgy as it stands ; but for my part, so far 
from admiring it, I am no great admirer of any forms of 
public prayer.” 

This was uttered in a very dogged tone, and as if the 
speaker had ensconsed himself in an impregnable posi- 
tion. 

“ There is only one thing,” I replied, “to be said on 
that point, — you must either have forms, or give up pub- 
lic prayer.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Warlingham, you must allow me to 
contradict you. I know a most exemplary dissenting 


Crashaw. 


FORMS AND FORMULARIES. 


173 


minister who makes a different extempore prayer every 
Sabbath of his life, before a crowded congregation.” 

“ Very likely,” said I ; “ but as the prayer is his com- 
position — a composition which each member of his con- 
gregation must listen to and follow — it is a form to them ; 
and it is a complete fallacy to speak of it in any other 
terms. A congregation mmt have a form of prayer, if 
they are to unite in any act of worship. And if we are to 
have forms, I cannot understand why the crude, hasty 
prayers of an individual, (for crude and hasty must his 
performances be, who provides a new service weekly, and 
has to make fifty-two liturgies per annum,) — I cannot un- 
derstand, I say, why the prayers of such an individual, 
however excellent, are to be preferred to the primitive, 
well-considered services of the Book of Common Prayer.” 

“ Why, after all, Mr. Warlingham, the greatest ad- 
mirers of the Liturgy of the Church of England are 
forced to confess that it is almost wholly a collection of 
extracts from the popish Missal and ifireviary.” 

“ Indeed !” said I ; “ you seem to forget that the great- 
er part is a collection of extracts from holy Scripture — 
Psalms, Lessons, Epistles, Gospels, and such like. But 
granting (which I am quite ready to do) that three-fifths 
of what remains is to be found in the Romish service- 
books — what then? You do not mean, I suppose, to 
hold such a monstrous doctrine, as that whatever Rome 
has used must needs be bad, because she has used it ? — 
and that because, alas ! she has great, and grievous, and 
unwarrantable errors and falsehoods in her rituals, there 
is therefore no truth in them ?” 

“1 confess,” replied Mark, “that when I am thirsty, 


174 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


I would rather go at once to a pure spring, than sit down 
and filter dirty water.” 

“But what right have you to assume that a pure 
spring was not sought in the instance to which you refer ? 
If a liturgy were now for the first time to be composed, and 
there was no source to go to but the Missal, no doubt the 
filtering process must be adopted : and to a certain de- 
gree it was adopted by our reformers. But you know, 
or ought to know, that the prayers alluded to do not be- 
long to Rome more exclusively than to any other branch 
of the Church. They are Catholic, not Roman. They 
were collected, indeed, by Gelasius the patriarch of 
Rome, in the fifth century, and so have been the founda- 
tion of the liturgies of the Western Churches ; among 
others, of our own. But Gelasius was not the author of 
these forms ; he only gathered together what had been 
received from tradition of apostolic times. At the period 
of the Reformation in this country, the formularies of 
public worship differed more or less in different dioceses, 
and needed various corrections. At that period — name- 
ly, in 1549 — the bishops and doctors of the English 
Church, acting under royal authority, made a revision of 
the ritual books, and eventually published the Book of 
Common Prayer, appointing it lobe read in all churches, 
and thereby establishing uniformity of practice. The 
Liturgy thus set forth was again revised, (I will not say 
improved,) chiefly at the interference of certain foreign 
reformers and their adherents, in 1552. Fresh alterations 
were made in Queen Elizabeth’s reign ; another revision 
took place in 1604, under James the First, and another 
upon the restoration of Charles the Second, in 1661. 


FORMS AND FORMULARIES. 


175 


Every one of these reviewals of the Prayer-book was 
undertaken for the purpose of meeting the spirit of the 
times, and with the praiseworthy desire, (alas, how fruit- 
less !) on the part of conscientious men, to give objectors 
a fair hearing, to conciliate the adversaries of the Church, 
and to maintain, if possible, its unity. Every one of 
these revisions was undertaken out of consideration for 
that party who to this very hour clamour for fresh altera- 
tions. And every one of these revisions failed to satisfy 
those who demanded them. By the mercy of Providence, 
however, despite of all the unceasing vicissitudes of for- 
tune — despite of trouble and prosperity — despite of be- 
trayal and oppression — despite of schism within, and the 
world without, — the Church of England has maintained 
and preserved in all essentials that Ibrm of public prayer, 
which for 1200 years and more has been ‘ a strength to 
the poor, a strength to the needy in his distress, a refuge 
from the storm, a shadow from the heat, when the blast 
of the terrible ones is as a storm against the wall.’ Now 
let us hear how you would improve the Prayer-book.” 

Mark looked somewhat abashed at being thus called 
upon to set himself up as the censor of that which has 
been the solace and satisfaction of the wise and good for 
so many ages ; however, he speedily recovered himself, 
and went glibly through the list of popular objections. 
Divine service was too long; there were too many 
repetitions ; the creeds were inconsistent with Christian 
charity, &c. &c. &c. 

“ Well,” said I, “ these charges are very general ; 
but I suppose if we were to go through the Prayer-book 


176 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


together, you could show me what parts you would cast 
out, and what you would retain V’ 

“I make no doubt I could,” said Mark; “I would 
leave out the creeds, and the versicles, and the doxologies, 
and only use the Lord’s prayer once, and shorten the 
Litany, and leave out the ten commandments, and . . 

“ Stop a moment,” exclaimed I, as the torrent of in- 
novation was overwhelming me, — “ stop a moment ; here 
are quite sufficient samples of your scheme for the pres- 
ent. Allow me to ask, do you suppose that these altera- 
tions would satisfy every body ?” 

“ Oh, no, I cannot undertake to say that ; for I know 
some who would not be contented unless the whole Lit- 
urgy were abolished.” 

“ And why should they not have their will ?” asked I, 
quietly. 

“ Oh, I should be very sorry to see the Prayer-book 
entirely destroyed.” 

“ And / should be equally sorry to see your plan adopt- 
ed. Who is to decide between us ? One man is for one 
alteration, another for another. As many minds as men. 
Who is to have their way ? who is to yield ?” 

Mark was silent. 

“ If,” I continued, “ if once the career of individual 
criticism were to be let loose, there would be no end to 
the confusion that would arise ; and all for what purpose ? 
Where we conciliated one opponent, we should offend ten 
thousand members of our own communion. Is it worth 
while to go to sea upon the chance of finding an Utopia 
somewhere ? Is it worth while to pull down one’s house, 


FORMS AND FORMULARIES, 


177 


while the architects are utterly at variance how it is to 
be built up again ?” 

“ But do you not think the morning and evening ser- 
vices too long, Mr. Warlingham 1” 

“ Certainly not. They are shorter than the ancient 
services, in the proportion of two to seven. This is an 
historical fact, which admits of no question j and I confess 
that it appears to me that the inference to be deduced 
from it admits of as little. Our devotion is just so much 
proportionably less than was that of our forefathers.” 

“ But what do you say to the repetitions in the Litur- 
gy ? Does not our Lord Himself discourage ‘ vain repe- 
titions ?’ ” 

“ He charged His disciples not to use vain repetitions, 
as the heathen^ did: but you must please to remember 
that He Himself, the night before He suffered, used the 
same prayer three times successively ; and that no sooner 
had He taught His disciples the prayer which is known 
by His name, than He actually spake a parable for the 
very purpose of enforcing the necessity of repetition in 
prayer.”t 

“ Well, Mr. Warlingham,” observed Mark in the next 
place, “ I suppose there may be two sides of the question 
to be attended to, in both the matters of which I have 
spoken ; but there is one point connected with the Liturgy 
in which all moderate men seem pretty well agreed.” 

“ Indeed,” said I, smiling. “ What is that ?” 

“ That it is highly desirable to get rid of that Atha- 
nasian Creed. I declare I quite wondered this morning” 

t See Luke xi. 1-9- 


* See Acts xix. 34. 


16 


178 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


(it happened to be the Feast of St. Matthias) “how you 
could bring yourself to read it.” 

“ Why, you do not suppose, do you,” I replied, with 
some sternness of manner, (for indeed I felt indignant) — 
“ you do not suppose that I should so far presume to break 
my solemn vow to conform to the Liturgy of the Church 
of England, as to dispense with any part of the service 
on my own authority? With respect, however, to the 
Athanasian Creed, if you wish for my opinion, you shall 
have it, and welcome : 1 would rather give up the whole 
Liturgy than that confession of faiths 

“Mr. Warlingham,” exclaimed Mark, “you really 
•amaze me. What can make you the advocate of a creed 
which even a prelate of your own Church is said to have 
wished that ‘we were well rid of?’ ”* - ' 

“ The less that is said about Archbishop Tillotson’s 
Church-principles the better. He was, 1 fear, a latitudi- 
narian, in a cold, latitudinarian age ; at any rate, his prin- 
ciples were far too unsettled for his opinion to be of the 
smallest value on either side.” 

“ But what business,” asked Mark, “ have we to tell 
a fellow-creature, that unless he believes such and such 
things he ‘ cannot be saved,’ and, that ‘ without doubt he 
shall perish everlastingly ?’ ” 

* In a letter to Burnet, dated Oct. 23, 1694, (written about 
a month before he died,) on Burnet’s Exposition of the Thir- 
ty-nine Articles, Archbishop Tillotson says, “ The account 
given of Athanasius’s Creed seems to me no wise satisfactory. 
/ wish we were well rid of it .'' — See Tillotson' s Life hy Dr. 
Birch^ p. 315, edit. 1751. 


FORMS AND FORMULARIES. 


179 


“ I answer your question by asking another : What 
business have we to tell the blasphemer or the adulterer, 
die thief or the murderer, that he cannot be saved,— that 
without doubt he shall perish everlastingly ?” 

“ Oh, but there is a qualification in that case ; you 
only mean, that so long as such persons continue in open 
wilful sin, and without repentance, they are in danger of 
hell-fire.” 

“ There is the same qualification in the Athanasian 
Creed ; its damnatory clauses, as they are called, are ad- 
dressed to those who continue in heresy, not to those who 
leave it.” 

“ But there is something very offensive to people, in 
hearing such frightful penalties attached to the mainte- 
nance of opinions which they hold conscientiously.” 

“ How far there may be pardon for an ignorant con- 
science holding an erroneous belief, is a question which 
does not here concern us. The creed speaks to those 
who have been brought up in the right faith of the Church, 
and warns them of the danger of falling from it. And 
they ought to be grateful to, rather than angry with, the 
Church, that admonishes them of their danger. Creeds 
were not introduced gratuitously and unnecessarily. 
They were a provision which was absolutely essential 
for preserving the right faith of the Church against the 
growth of heresy. And it was only as error became 
more diversified and prevalent, that it became needful to 
make each successive creed, while it taught still the same 
truths as at first, to be more precise and stringent in its 
terms. And, of course, since the Athanasian Creed is 


180 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


the most definite of all,* it is most offensive to those who 
are least willing to submit themselves to the authority of 
the Catholic Church. But, after all, who are the persons 
who object to the Athanasian Creed ? Socinians, and 
such like, who, if they had their will, would tread under 
foot the Son of God, and who count the blood of the cove- 
nant wherewith we are sanctified an unholy thing. The 
doctrine maintained in the Athanasian Creed is the doc- 
trine of the Gospel. It was the doctrine of the primitive 
Church, maintained in all its public creeds, and in the 
private confessions of every saint whose memory the 
Church holds dear. It continued to be the bulwark of 
the faith, while exposed to manifold corruptions, in the 
ages that preceded the Reformation. It was the doctrine 
of Luther, the doctrine of Calvin, the doctrine of every 
reformed Church; nay, it was received by the Puritans 

* “ As to the matter of it, it doth very fully and particu- 
larly condemn all the heresies that were of old in the time of 
this great bulwark of the catholic faith : forbidding us to con- 
found the persons of the Trinity, with Sabellius, or to divide 
the substance, with Arius and Eunomius : it shows us, against 
Arius and Macedonius, that both the Son is God, and the 
Holy Ghost is God ; it confesses Christ to be God of the sub- 
stance of His Father, against Samosatenus and Photinus; 
and man of the substance of His mother, against Apollinaris ; 
yet He is not, as Nestorius dreamed, two, but one Christ, not 
by confusion of substance, as Eutyches held, but by unity of 
person. So that this creed is the quintessence of ancient or- 
thodox divinity, and the means to extirpate all those accursed 
heresies, gome of which our age hath seen revived.” — Dean 
Comber. 


FORMS AND FORMULARIES. 


181 


themselves ; and consequently it was reserved for the 
present race of English sectarians, and for those who 
hold that every man’s opinion is his church, to make com- 
mon cause with the deist and the infidel in despising, con- 
demning, and deriding that which has been not less truly 
than beautifully called the ‘ creed of the saints, and an- 
them of the blest.’ ” 

Having thus answered the several objections which 
Mark Fullerton had adduced, I thought it better to close 
the conversation at once, and leave him to reflect on what 
had been said : so, pleading (as was indeed the case) that 
I had no more time to spare, I took a hasty leave of my 
companions. 

As Mildred Clifford gave me her hand with a sweet 
smile of gratitude, I observed that her eyes were filling 
with tears. Mark gave me his hand too, but it was with 
a mingled air of nonchalance and wounded vanity. 



16 * 



f 




s 


Elje of tl)c «!!2FcvIlj. 

Thus, when she made the Church her hallow’d shrine, 
Founded on Jesus Christ the corner-stone, 

With prophets and Apostles, and the line 
Of order’d ministers. Truth ever one. 

Not here or there, but in the whole hath shone. 

Whilst heresies arise of varying clime. 

And varying form and colour, the true sun. 

One and the same through all advancing time. 

The whole his mansion makes, vast, uniform, sublime. 

Lyra ^postolica. 


1 


s 


» 


'O' 






CHAPTER X. 


From the terour of the conversation recorded in the 
last chapter, it was quite evident that Mark Fullerton was 
more inclined to withdraw from the Church than to ad- 
here to it. It afforded him no pleasure to have his objec- 
tions answered — to find that the charges he had heard 
and learned to repeat against the doctrines and liturgy of 
the Church of England were frivolous. His whole bear- 
ing was that of a person who had chosen his side, and 
meant to adhere to it, right or wrong. He seemed to 
have pleasure in arguing on religious subjects, not so 
much because they were weighing on a burdened mind, as 
because his vanity was tickled by such discussions. They 
gave him an importance in his own eyes : he had a sort 
of morbid gratification in finding his opinions of so much 
apparent consequence. He liked the excitement of see- 
ing his friends in anxiety about him ; and perhaps, all the 
while, he was being flattered by the members of the 
Knewstubs family ; and others nearer home had suggest- 
ed to him the prospect of his becoming a leading man 
among the dissenters in his own neighbourhood. In short, 
it was a case, which, the more I thought about it, the less 
sanguine did I feel as to any satisfactory result. 


186 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


or one thing, moreover, I was convinced, namely, that 
to encourage controversial discussion, till he had humbler 
thoughts about himself, and his talents, and his conse- 
quence, would be to do him a great disservice. It would 
only be to confirm him in the ways of error. The only 
thing which seemed left was to pray for him ; and, doubt- 
less, if ever human being poured forth intercessions fer- 
vently for a fellow-creature, Mildred Clifford’s prayers 
were of that description. She soon saw the course his 
mind was taking ; and, having known him so long and so 
intimately, she felt she could look forward to but one re- 
sult. His secession from the Church was inevitable. He 
would, therefore, soon be to her as one dead, — loved in- 
deed with the deep love of sisterly affec’ion; but all 
thoughts of a nearer and dearer tie must be laid aside for 
ever. 

It was a sad, and yet an edifying sight to watch one 
who had evidently such capacities for this world’s happi- 
ness, adopting so brave and unflinching a course, — pre- 
paring to sacrifice long-cherished visions of happiness, 
and the certainly of temporal advantages, for conscience- 
sake. It was impossible to look upon her calm, pale face, 
without seeing that “ thoughts too deep for tears” were 
written there. But all was meekness and gentle submis- 
sion ; no weak giving way to excited feelings ; no indul- 
gence of passionate regrets. She had early learned, 
that suffering was the badge of her Christian profession, 
the pledge of her union with a crucified Saviour; that a 
daily cross was a precious legacy, to be received thank- 
fully, and borne contentedly, for His sake who bequeath- 
ed it. 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


187 


Meanwhile Mark himself was sanguine that he should 
gain over Mildred to his own opinions. Undisciplined 
himself, he made little doubt that her ultimate decision 
would be on ihe side of her inclinations ; and he could 
not doubt whither those inclinations tended. Occordingly, 
he frequently called at Mrs. Long’s, and always led the 
way to religious discussions. Occasionally he started 
difficulties, which (as might have been expected) Mildred 
found herself unable to answer. When, however, this was 
the case, she lost no time in consulting me : and I was 
fortunate enough to be able, without much difficulty, to 
set her mind at ease. But she had sense enough, and, I 
may add, piety enough, to be fully aware of the unprofit- 
ableness of discussions, which in a degree unsettled her 
mind for the time, and made her restless. So she told 
Mark kindly, yet firmly, that she was resolved by God’s 
grace to live and die a Churchwoman, and that therefore 
she must decline listening to his arguments for the future. 
If his mind was irrevocably made up, she could not ex- 
pect that any thing she could say would influence itj and 
she begged him, by the affection he bore her, not to en- 
deavour to move hers from the foundation on which it was 
fixed. 

When Mark found that he was thus precluded from 
broaching his opinions to Mildred, he betook himself to 
Yateehull vicarage. But here a similar disappointment 
awaited him ; wherever he seemed to be really in doubt 
or difficulty, I offered him the best suggestioi s I could, 
pointed out to him the sources whence he might derive 
sound information, and helped him to those theological 
writers who discussed with the greatest ability and im- 


188 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


partiality the points on which he professed anxiety to make 
up his mind. But so soon'as I perceived him disposed 
to adopt his favourite plan of arguing for the sake of ar- 
guing, or for display, I cut the matter short, and brought 
the conversation to a close by leading him to contradict 
himself, or commit some similar absurdity ; and then re- 
commending him (and indeed it was no unnecessary re- 
commendation) to study the subject more fully before he 
talked about it. For, with all his fluency, he was by no 
means well read ; and his arguments, for the most part, 
were what he might have picked up in any number of a 
second-rate dissenting magazine. But this plan of quiet 
study was by no means what he wished to engage in ; he 
was too desultory in his habits to love steady application • 
and he was content to be without knowledge which did 
not come to hand easily. He liked to appear brilliant, 
and clever, and singular ; and if he succeeded in this, he 
was apparently indifferent as to whether his views were 
sound and correct. In short, vanity was his besetting 
sin ; and when he found that his best friends did not en- 
courage him in it, he grew tired of his residence at Gods- 
holme, and began to talk of the wearisome monotony of 
his life. He was pining for fresh excitement. 

Winter was now over; and spring, with its blossoms 
and balmy airs, was renewing the face of the earth. I 
was glad of an excuse for a somewhat longer walk than 
usual, and not having lately called at the Mynchery, I 
approached it on the day to which I allude by the most 
round-about path I could find, leisurely winding my way 
through budding thickets full of primroses and early 
flowers, inhaling the fresh smell of the earth and trees 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


189 


listening to the song of the thrush and the blackbird, look- 
ing at the lambs at their play, and watching the white 
butterflies as (a sure sign of fine weather) they rested 
with expanded wings upon some moist patch by the road- 
side, enjoying themselves in the warm gleams which had 
succeeded to the morning’s rain. “ Strange,” said I to 
myself, “ that at this season, when the changing aspects 
of nature become more lovely and more various every 
hour, that people of a taste so vitiated can be found, who 
have pleasure, aye, pleasure, in leaving the country, and 
seeking the noise, and dirt, and impure air, (to say noth- 
ing of the vice, and worldliness, and jarring passions, and 
evil communications,) of the crowded metropolis!” 

While these thoughts were yet in my mind, 1 met the 
young proprietor of Godsholme on the outskirts of his 
own domain, and was greeted with the announcement, 
“ I am so glad you called to-day ; for I am going up to 
London the day after to-morrow.” 

“ Indeed ?” said I. “ This is quite a new resolve, is it 
not? nothing unpleasant, I hope ?” 

“No; only I am so tired of my lonely life here, that I 
shall be glad of a little change.” 

“ No doubt you must feel it solitary at times ; but with 
such an extensive neighbourhood as this, I should have 
thought that you would be at no loss for company.” 

“ Company ? I don’t want company. I want society.” 

“ Well,” said I, smiling, “ I will change the expression, 
and say that you can be at no loss for society.” 

“ Society ? hereabouts ? I wonder what you call so- 
ciety. There are half a dozen country houses, I grant 
you,— Dullby Lodge, and Soakover Hall, Swillington, 

17 


190 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


and so on ; but what are their inhabitants ? tiresome old 
women, silly flirting young ones, and men who, when they 
are not thinking of turnips, are talking of foxes, and when 
they are not thinking of foxes, are talking of turnips, or 
dreaming of them. I declare, except yourself and Mil- 
dred, there is not a soul in the neighbourhood whom I 
ever care or wish to see again. And as for you two,” 
added he, in a tone of deeper feeling, and looking me full 
in the face, “ I really think you are in a league against 
me, for you will neither of you listen to me when I speak 
of the only subject which interests me.” 

It struck me, as Mark uttered these words, that he 
wished to judge by my countenance whether I had any 
hand in influencing Mildred’s decision with respect to 
him ; but I suppose I met his gaze so composedly and 
unflinchingly, that he discarded the suspicion at once. At 
any rate, I heard no more of it 

“ The league you talk of,” said I, “ exists only in your 
own imagination. I have never attempted to influence 
Mildred’s decision ; but I will engage that she will do 
right, whatever she does. As for myself, I can only 
repeat what I have often said before. ^ Show me where 
you want help, advice, or instruction, and you may com- 
mand me at all times, but I see no good that can arise to 
either of us from re-discussing the same subjects day 
after day, and when (you must excuse my saying it) you 
evidently find more pleasure in raking up already- 
answered objections to the Church, than in attempting 
patiently and humbly to study and understand her sys- 
tem.” 

Hereupon Mark, like all uncandid reasoners whose 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


191 


consciences are a little sore, made strong protestations 
about his candour. I made no other answer than by 
saying, “ And you really expect to find in London what 
you cannot find here ?” 

“I intend going shortly to my uncle Knewstubs at 
Pisgah Park. I only want to attend some of the reli- 
gious meetings, and learn a little of what is going on in 
the religious world.” 

“The religious world I exclaimed with a sigh; 
“ what a contradiction in terms ! I confess I have heard 
the phrase before ; but I am at a loss to comprehend it. 
Will you tell me what you understand by the religious 
world?” 

“Nay,” said Mark, “you can hardly fail to know, 
with all your old-world prejudices. But I have no objec- 
tion to define it, as that union of Christians ol' all sects 
and parties, which has proved the great regenerating in- 
fluence of our time, — those numerous religious societies, 
from which none but bigots stand aloof, where Church- 
man and dissenter meet on one platform, and rejoice to 
find themselves allied in the work of sending the gospel 
to the dark places of the earth.” 

“ But why on one platform,” I asked, “ rather than in 
one house of prayer ? And w’hy on a platform at all ? 
Why is the Church taken out, like Samson, into the 
house of Dagon, to make sport for the Philistines ?* Why 
is religion treated like a captive led in triumph at the 
world’s chariot-'wheels, as if she had no hope for herself 

* Every one who has seen Exeter Hall during a public 
meeting knows what drolleries are enacted there in the name 
of religion. 


192 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


but in the following the world’s ways and will. Depend 
upon it, there may be as many worldly hearts and bad pas- 
sions in one crowd as in another ; and there is as little true 
heavenly-mindedness in the excitement of the (so-called) 
religious world as in that of the fashionable world.” 

“I think you are very severe, sir; are not public 
meetings and platform-oratory essential now-a-days to 
the success of any religious undertaking 

“We have made them so, I fear; because in the 
present day we have no notion of being religious without 
talking about it.” 

“ But have not your own Church -societies adopted this 
very machinery of agitation?” 

“Yes,” I replied ; “but it is yet to be seen whether 
they will not, ere long, discover that they have committed 
a grievous error. There is more than one society, which, 
by yielding to the spirit of the times, has already assumed 
(if I may coin such a word) ultra-episcopal functions, 
which has usurped bishops’ offices, and interfered with 
bishops’ duties. But this is a digression. You go to 
London for so-called ‘ religious’ excitement ; and you go 
to Pisgah park — ” 

“ For religious society,” said Mark. 

“ That is only religious excitement in another form.” 

“Well,” cried Mark impatiently, “call it what you 
will. All I can say is, I find my feelings in a much more 
satisfactory stale f/ierethan Acre.” 

“ I can hardly understand that,” said I. “ Here you 
are occupied in the quiet daily discharge of the duties of 
that situation to which God has called you, — among your 
own people, your labourers and tenants. Elsewhere, if 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


193 


you have more to occupy your thoughts, you have less 
to keep them in a right course. Do you mean, for in- 
stance, that you can say your prayers with more devo- 
tion away from this place 

“ Why, not exactly that, perhaps ; but altogether my 
frame of mind and emotions are more religious.” 

“ But why think so much about your religious feel- 
ings? Why get into the habit of scrutinizing sensations 
and emotions, and persuading yourself that they are the 
main part of religion, when every page of your Bible tells 
you that deeds (not feelings) are the tests of holiness ?” 

“Am I not bidden, Mr. Warlingham, ‘ to keep my 
heart with all diligence,’ because out of it are the issues of 
1 ife and death ? And how can I ‘ keep my heart,’ without 
watching continually all its frames and feelings ?” 

“You misunderstand me,” I replied. “You are bound 
to watch your heart with all diligence; hut self-exami- 
nation is a very different thing from self-contemplation. 
The one is a healthy process, the other a morbid one ; the 
one will make you humble, the other tends to make you 
vain : the one abases self the other exalts it. If you 
look into your heart for the purpose of eradicating its 
faults, well and good, — the more you look into it the bet- 
ter ; but if you look into it merely for the purpose of see- 
ing how high or how low is your (so-called) spiritual con- 
dition, you are sure to get entangled in the snares of 
self-deception. ‘ We have power over our deeds^ under 
God’s grace,’ as it has been well said ; ‘ but we have 
no direct power over our habits. Let us but secure our 
actions as God would have them, and our habits will fol- 
low.’ ” 


17 * 


194 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


“ Ah, but,” exclaimed Mark with eagerness, “ what 
a wretched evidence of our growth in grace are our best 
works ; imperfect as they are, and tainted with sin ; while 
the glow of a fervent heart” . . . 

May — nay, probably will deceive you,” said I, in- 
terrupting him, ‘‘while yonr works will not. Besides, 
granting that the case is as you put it, what right have 
we to expect any more satisfactory evidence ? 

‘ Bethink thee, what thou art, and where — 

A sinner, in a world of care.’ 

To be sa/e rather than to be comfortable^ is what we are to 
aim at. It never was intended that our life in this world 
should he any thing else but a constant state of discipline. 
AVe are placed here, not in order that we should please 
ourselves, but God ; and our trial consists in a surrender 
of our own inclinations to God’s will — those inclinations 
and that will being almost always, at least in the earlier 
stages of our probation, at variance. If to deny ourselves 
be our very first duty, is it not obvious that to encourage 
and foster a frame of mind which is calculated to give self 
an importance in our eyes, must needs be very prejudicial 
to our soul’s health ? and is it not equally obvious, that 
any system which teaches us to look from ourselves and 
to Christ, to forget frames and feelings, and go on day 
by day in a steady ever-advancing course of obedience 
and practical holiness, is the best that could possibly be 
devised for creatures such as we are ?” 

“But where is such a system to be found?” asked 
Mark. 

“ In the Church,” I replied. “ Hers is a system in 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


195 


which (duly acted upon) there is no place left for selfish- 
ness. The individual is taught in all things to merge his 
interests in those of the community. The ordinances of 
the Church, her prayers and sacraments, her festivals 
and fasts, no less than the continual alms-deeds which 
she prescribes, are all so many provisions against selfish- 
ness, so many instances in which she reminds us that we 
are members one of another, of the invisible world as 
well as of the visible ; that we are not our own ; that our 
common interests and common privileges should lead us 
to Him w’ho is the head of the body, and to our brethren 
who are living members of it ; and thus make us lay 
aside personal interests, and enable us to escape the dan- 
gers of self-deception. The Church, in short, both 
teaches us to be rather than to seem, and while she en- 
courages us to think of any body rather than of our- 
selves, she takes care, that so far as in her lies, we shall 
be daily, though imperceptibly, attaining that state of 
true spiritual-mindedness, which is the child of faith and 
obedience, and not the short-lived offspring of selfishness 
and excitement.” 

“ I believe there is truth in what you say,” observed 
Mark ; “ for I really suspect that at times I have myself 
given an undue importance to the state of my religious 
feelings as a test of my spiritual advancement. I have 
been too much depressed with what perhaps, after all, 
arose only from the languor and exhaustion which prob- 
ably follows spiritual as well as physical excitement, 
and too much exhilarated by emotions which have soon 
passed away : but every body has their trials, as you 


196 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


say ; and I hope before long I shall be more settled in my 
mind than I have been of late.” 

“ Alas, alas,” said I, “ I fear you are not taking the 
means to become so! What, by your own confession, 
has been your state of mind since you first allowed your- 
self to be estranged from the Church of England ? From 
the moment you were tempted to leave the substance for 
the shadow, has not all been disquietude and doubt with- 
in you ?” 

• Mark looked angry and annoyed at these questions, 
but he remained silent; for it truth he could only have 
answered them in the affirmative. 

“ Forgive my speaking thus plainly,” I continued ; “ but 
I may not have many opportunities hereafter of talking 
with you. You are now about to leave this place, and 
the probability is, that before you return to it again, you 
will have taken a decided step either for good or evil. 
Bear with me, therefore, while as an old tried friend to 
you and yours, — as one who can have no motives in what 
he urges upon you but your welfare, — bear with me, while 
I avail myself of what may be the last opportunity I shall 
ever have of warning you of the grievous sin into wffiich 
you are about to fall; nay, I fear, have already fallen. 
For what is your condition ? You neither question that 
the Church of England is a true and living branch of 
the Church of Christ, nor that there is salvation to be 
found within her pale. You do not attempt to charge 
her with apostacy, nor heresy, nor with holding errors 
which may prove the destruction of those who adopt them. 
You only maintain that individually you believe you can 
gain more edification elsewhere. And in order to attain 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


197 


this edification, what do you do? In defiance of the 
clearest historical evidence, that till within the last three 
hundred years there never was a Church that had not 
derived its sacred orders of bishops, priests, and deacons 
through the apostolical succession, you betake yourself to 
the self-appointed teachers of a sect which has been guilty 
of schism from the Church of Christ in England ; teach- 
ers who have no authority whatever to minister in the con- 
gregation, and through whose hands you have no warrant 
to_[expect that the grace of the sacraments will be trans- 
mitted. You set up your own individual opinion by itself, 
as the competent interpreter of Scripture ; and, in doing 
SO; run counter to the whole current of Catholic tradition. 
You cast off your allegiance to the Church in which you 
were born and bred, and act and speak as though it were 
a light matter, 'or one for which you would not have a 
most awful account to give hereafter.” . . . 

“Mr. Warlingham,” exclaimed Mark, impatiently, “I 
have not seceded from the Church of England ; and you 
are not justified in speaking of me as though I had done 
so. Before I could become a member of the Independent 
body, I must ‘ come before their Church that is, I must 
be initiated into it.” 

“ I thought,” said I, gravely, “ that holy baptism was 
that by which it is appointed in God’s word that we should 

be initiated into the Church. O ! the miserable sruilt of 

1 

those who have dared to supersede God’s ordinance, and 
substitute in its place an invention of their own. But 
such is ever the course of schism. It never remains sta- 
tionary, it never keeps even to its original form of error. It 
is forced by its own principles to go further and further from 


198 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


Christian truth. First, there is some difference indiscipline, 
perhaps, which creates the schism ; then the next step 
is a difference in doctrine; then follows contempt, as in 
your case, for the divine authority of ministers ; next, in 
sure succession, an indifference to the question hy whom 
the sacraments are administered ; then, lastly, a disregard 
for the sacraments themselves, and a denial of their grace. 
Thus wilfulness leads to schism, schism becomes heresy, 
and it is well if heresy does not end in open falling away 
from the faith. You say you have not left the Church of 
England ; but every conversation I have had with you 
for months past, shows that in heart at least you are an 
alien from her. Here then is the danger that stares you 
in the face. Your love of free inquiry, as you call it, 
and your reliance on your own judgment — (I pray God 
that what is so designated by t/ow, may not be designated 
by the Judge of all as vanity and wilfulness !) — these 
tempers have led you to the brink of schism. In your 
present position, you have become an object of interest to 
two parties : those who will grieve to see you a sectary, 
and those who would win you over to dissent. This 
gives you notions of your consequence ; there is excite- 
ment, singularity in your position ; you have an imagina- 
ry importance which you would not have as an humble- 
minded, quiet member of the Church ; nobody then would 
canvass your opinions, or make it a matter of considera- 
tion and importance that you did this, or said that ; you 
would read more, and talk less ; you would rather desire 
to be a diligent student than a fluent speaker. It is other- 
wise now, and you are pleased and dazzled to find your- 
self notorious ; your next step, — unless you are wise in 


THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 


199 


time, — will be to join those who now flatter you ; but 
mark what I say, — your first step in schism will not be 
your last; you will do as thousands before you have done 
— you will get tired of your new sect. The charm of 
novelty will cease, while the morbid love of singularity 
will remain ; and so you will fall from bad to worse, toss- 
ed about by every blast of vain doctrine : passing your 
days in a wavering unsettled state, and perhaps sinking 
down at last into heartless Socinianism, or actual unbe- 
lief. O my dear Mark, it needs no prophet’s voice to fore- 
tell the fate of those who seek to arrive at truth by any 
other method than the Church directs. It is written in 
the history of all preceding ages. Once leave the Church’s 
guidance, and you enter on a track which will end you 
know not where, — only it must end in guilt and misery. 
May God, in His mercy, keep you from it ! But remem- 
ber yet once and again, that if you do enter on it, you do 
so with your eyes open !” 

So saying, and with a heavy foreboding heart, I bade 
Mark Fullerton farewell. 




21® ao ot t|)e ^|)urc]), 


He that is down needs fear no fall, 
He that is low no pride ; 

He that is humble ever shall 
Have God to be his guide. 

I am content with what I have, 
Little be it or much ; 

And, Lord, contentment still I crave. 
Because thou savest such. 

Fulness to such a burden is, 

That go on pilgrimage : 

Here little, and hereafter bliss, 

Is best from age to age. 


John Bunyan, 


f 




V 




CHAPTER XI. 

Midsummer found Mrs. Long released from her pro- 
tracted sufferings. Her existence had been such for many 
months past, that its termination could only inspire one 
feeling in the hearts- of those who loved her best, — a feel- 
ing, namely, of thankfulness that it had pleased God to 
deliver her out of the miseries of this sinful world. Any 
other feeling with respect to one who had served Him so 
faithfully, and had so long habituated herself while in 
health and strength to die daily, would have been very 
reprehensible selfishness. And this Mildred was among 
the first to perceive and acknowledge, even before the 
blow so long expected had fallen upon her. Never- 
theless, when her kind friend was actually numbered with 
the dead, and the grave had closed over her, — when the 
nurse’s gentle ministrations were no longer needed, and 
the routine of daily attentions had ceased for ever, — 
when hour after hour passed slowly on, and the book was 
changed for the work, and the work laid aside for the 
book, and still her own breathing and the ticking of the 
clock were almost the only sounds that fell upon her ear, 
— Mildred became acutely and painfully depressed with 
the sense of her bereavement, and the extent to which it 
must affect her. She was now, in a manner, alone in the 


204 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


world ; and by a recent decision of her own, she had, in 
rejecting Mark, cast away from her-all that the world is 
most disposed to prize, — all that to one in her unprotected 
condition especially seemed most desirable ; and although 
a handsome legacy which Mrs. Long had bequeathed 
her, together with what she possessed of her own, had 
placed her above the reach of poverty, there were still 
many comforts to which she had been accustomed, which 
it was now necessary that she should forego. These 
circumstances, together with Mark’s absence, the novelty 
of her present position, and the uncertainty of her future 
plans, all tended to make her feel helpless and friendless. 
This was the dark side of the picture ; but its brighter 
side showed a steady, cheerful trust in God j a meek 
submission to His will; a steadfast purpose to resist 
all morbid, selfish tempers ; and an earnest endeavour 
both to meet her trials with thankfulness, and to hallow 
them to the purposes for which they were sent. 

But as yet she knew not how severely she was to be 
tried. 

It happened within a fortnight from Mrs. Long’s funer- 
al, that after calling upon Mildred, (who had not hitherto 
been seen in public,) I resolved, in the course of my walk, 
to pay a visit to Miss Prowle — a duty which I was always 
rather loth to discharge, and which afforded me little 
pleasure or profit any way. That lady’s temper seemed 
to become more and more unamiable with her increasing 
years. She had made so much mischief in the parish, 
had affronted so many of her neighbours, and (to say 
truth) had so many enemies, that the circle in which she 
lived, or rather the persons who would submit to her 


THE WAY OF THE CHURCH. 


205 


exacting fractious ways, were much decreased in number, 
and indeed had become confined to three or four idle 
talking women of congenial dispositions to her own : Mrs. 
Adderbury, a lady from the next market-town, the venom 
of whose tongue had grown proverbial ; Miss Peck, a 
sickish, querulous old maid, who had a little ill-natured 
word for every body; and Mrs. Badger, (late Miss Burr,) 
with whom the reader is already acquainted. 

As I mounted the stairs, preparatory to my admission 
into Miss Prowle’s parlour, I heard shrill voices in eager 
conversation ; but on my entering the room, the speakers 
became instantly silent, and I found myself in the com- 
pany of the persons just described. I felt as a man does 
who has unwittingly approached a hornet’s nest, and in- 
ternally wished myself five miles off: however, it was 
too late to retreat ; all, therefore, that I could do, was to 
make the best of it, and endeavour, as opportunity should 
arise, to lead conversation into some profitable channel. 
However, if I was little pleased at the accident which had 
brought me abruptly before a body of scandal-mongers 
in full council, they seemed as little pleased at seeing me. 
There was evidently no danger of much love being lost 
between us. My entrance was the signal for a general 
move'; and after a few words of civil greeting, and a 
few decent observations about the heat, and the dust, and 
the probability of rain, the three visitors rose together, 
and after sundry nods and mysterious whispers with their 
hostess, and a promise “ to call in again when they had 
heard more particulars,” they took their departure. 

There was something indescribably unpleasant in the 
serpent-sparkle of Miss Prowle’s eye, and the bland smile 


206 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


which accompanied it, as she looked at me inquisitively 
when the door was closed. I did not like that look : I 
had known it of old : it was dangerous. Miss Prowle 
never smiled but when she had something to say which 
would pain her hearer, and when she had already settled 
how she should keep him longest in a state of suspense. 

“ My niece had just called in, Mr. Warlingham, to tell 
me all she had heard of this sad business at D ” (men- 

tioning a large town in the neighbourhood); “but you 
are probably acquainted with the latest particulars.” 

“ I have not heard of it at all,” said I, carelessly, for 
I knew very little about D , or its inhabitants. 

“ O sir, I beg pardon ; but I took it for granted you 
knew all about it. Hope you don’t feel the window in 
your back, sir : very sultry this afternoon, is it not ? Mr. 
Beeves is very busy with his hay, I see : they have been 
carrying all day, but I don’t think he will finish to-night, 
and it will certainly rain before morning.” ' 

All this was said in the manner of one who turns the 
subject of conversation, only in the hope of being brought 
back to it. Miss Prowle had not the least intention of my 
leaving her house in ignorance of what had occurred at 

D . This was obvious ; so (as the readiest way of 

getting rid of the subject) I immediately asked her to 
what she had alluded. 

“Indeed, Mr. Warlingham, it is quite distressing to 
talk of such things ; it only shows one how few persons 
are to be trusted ; it pains one to think ill of the world, or to 
speak ill of people, but really I begin to think that every 
body lives by cheating their neighbours.” 

“ Not quite every body, I trust,” said I. 


THE WAY OF THE CHURCH. 


207 


“ Why. indeed, when a man so respectable and well- 
spoken of as Mr. Newton turns out a rogue. ... I beg 
your pardon, Mr. Warlingham, but that certainly was 
thunder : may I request you to shut that window for me? 
Bless me, what a black cloud ! how very fast it is coming 
up ! lam sure we are going to have a dreadful storm.” 

Thus Miss Prowle ran on, keeping me (as she had 
intended) upon tenter-hooks; for the name she had 
dropped gave me at once an insight into the kind of com- 
munication she had to make, and my alarm and appre- 
hension were proportionably raised. Mr. Newton was 

the acting partner in the bank at D , and had been 

much in the confidence of the late Mrs. Fullerton. My 
only remedy was patience : and so after I had shut the 
window, andJMiss Prowle had fastened it, and pulled a 
blind up and down half a dozen times for the purpose of 
getting it straight, and watched for a flash of lightning, 
and settled which way the storm was travelling, she 
looked me full in the face, and proceeded : 

“You had not heard, then, that Mr. Newton has ab- 
sconded, — is off, sir, — gone out of the country, to France, 
or America, — nobody knows where ; and half the coun- 
try will be ruined by him. Hanging is too good for such 
a villain : but I beg your pardon, sir ; you probably know 
him ? — he was often at Godsholme.” 

“ No, I have heard nothing about it : pray what is the 
nature of Mr. Newton’s alleged delinquency ?” 

“ Oh, he has contrived to appropriate to his own use 
the property of a great many persons who had accounts 

with the bank at D . I do not quite understand the 

manner in which the fraud was accomplished, but I be- 


208 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


lieve he has forged powers of attorney ; sold out stock 
without the knowledge of the other partners ; and lulled 
suspicion by keeping up the payment of the dividends, 
while he made no entries of such payment in the books. 
They say he has been at this game for years.” 

“ I wonder whether Mr. Fullerton is a sufferer.” 

“Yes, sir, I fear he is. My niece, Mrs. Badger, was 
just talking about it when you came in. Her husband 
says that Mr. Fullerton will lose £2000.” 

“ It is fortunate,” I replied, “ that it is no worse : the 
loss is a serious one, but my friend Mark can afford it 
better than many of us.” 

“Very true, sir; but how unlucky it is that Mr. Ful- 
lerton was not at Godsholme ! If he had been on the 
spot, he might have secured every farthigg, as others 
have done.” 

“ How so ?” I asked. 

“ Why, Mr. Badger happened to learn that Mr. New- 
ton had settled all his property on his wife, and that she 
and all his children were gone to Boulogne. This made 
him suspect that all was not right ; and so he advised 
his sister, Mrs. Adderbury. to draw all her money out of 
the bank at D , and wrote to Mr. Fullerton recom- 

mending him to do the same; but before the letter 
reached its destination, Mr. Newton had taken to his 
heels.” 

“ What made him take to flight so suddenly?” 

“ Why, sir, to say the truth, Mrs. Adderbury, under 
a promise of secrecy, mentioned what she had done to 
me ; I related the circumstance to one or two particular 
friends in confidence, and so they took alarm, and went 


THE WAY OF THE CHURCH. 


209 


for their money ; and then Mr. Newton took alarm, and 
went off yesterday evening.” 

This was very sad intelligence ; and in spite of my 
habitual distrust of Miss Prowle’s news, it carried with it 
an air of probability: moreover, Miss Prowle allowed 
me to cross-examine her with less impatience than was 
her wont; but I could detect no inconsistency in her 
statement ; in short, I had no doubt it was true. She 
permitted me to make my lamentations accordingly; and 
then said, in the most sympathizing tone imaginable, “ I 
fear this will be the ruin of many who have little else to 
depend on.” 

“Yes,” I replied; “when these kind of things occur, 
the most numerous victims of the fraud are generally per- 
sons inexperienced in business, or disabled by age or sex 
from looking into their affairs properly.” 

“ I wonder what poor Miss Clifford will do,” continued 
Miss Prowle, with a sigh, and in a still gentler and more 
sympathizing tone, which, however, was contradicted by 
every feature in her face and the malicious sparkle of her 
dark eyes. 

“Miss Clifford!” I exclaimed ; “I trust that her for- 
tune is safe.” 

“ All her money, and Mrs. Long’s too, was in Mr. 
Newton’s hands. I happen to know that.’’'* 

'•^Know\V. Howlonghaveyou known it, Miss Prowle?” 

“Indeed, Mr. Warlingham, I cannot exactly remem- 
ber ; but a very considerable time’; for I remember hearing 
Mrs. Long say that she had always employed Mr. New- 
ton to arrange their money-concerns.” 

“ But you do not mean to say that you were aware 


210 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


of the impending mischief for some days previously, and 
that you did not give this poor girl a warning hint on the 
subject ?” 

“Miss Clifford’s affairs are no business of mine,” said 
Miss Prowle, doggedly. 

“ Oh, surely, madam, I misunderstand you; you 
could not have the inconceivable cruelty to a person that 
never injured you . . . .” 

“ Inconceivable cruelty !” cried Miss Prowle, in all 
the harshness of her natural voice, while at the same 
moment her sallow cheeks became livid with anger, — 
“ Inconceivable cruelty ! I will trouble you, sir, not to 
apply such language to me. If Miss Clifford is a loser, 
she has nobody but herself to thank for it. One of the 
very last times I called on her, she took upon herself to 
lecture me roundly for talking about other people’s affairs, 
and spreading uncharitable rumours, and so on. She 
said she didn’t want to hear such things. 1 told her the 
time might come when she would be glad of a little of my 
information ; but I promised her, that if ever such a time 
arrived, I would be as incommunicative as if I was deaf 
and dumb. Well, sir, the time has come, and I have 
kept my promise ; and you may tell her so, if you will.” 

And Miss Prowle grinned a ghastly smile, and looked 
the very picture of triumphant malice. 

“ May God forgive you this most unchristian deed to 
a poor orphan !” said I, with all possible severity of look 
and manner, “ and grant you a heart of flesh, instead of 
one which is as hard and callous as the nether mill- 
stone !” And turning on my heel abruptly, I left the 
house, while the storm was at its height. The war of 


THE WAY OF THE CHURCH. 


211 


the elements around me was awful ; but I had been too 
much shocked and disgusted by the scene I had just, 
quitted to mark its violence or heed the pouring rain. 
There is nothing in external nature so utterly appalling 
to contemplate, as the display of the evil passions of our 
fallen nature raginguncurbed and undisciplined. It is to 
stand in the very presence of Satan. 

I hastened home immediately, in order that I might - 
reflect calmly as to what was most expedient to be done 
on Mildred’s behalf. My first impulse was to set off to 

D before seeing her ; but, on second thoughts, I 

resolved to defer my journey till the next day, and to 
call on Messrs; Badger and Bateman, who would, no 
doubt, be in possession of full particulars of Mr. Newton’s 
delinquency. 

The result confirmed my worst apprehensions : the 
bank had suspended its payments, and it was generally 
believed that the assets would hardly reach a shilling in 
the pound. 

That same evening, I had the painful task of telling 
Mildred, that beyond what she had in her purse, and the 
little that would accrue to her from the sale of Mrs. Long’s 
furniture, (which had been part of her legacy from that 
lady,) she had not a sixpence in the world, — she was a 
beggar. 

IV- It was a stunning blow ; and the poor girl sat pale 
and motionless, with eyes fixed and lips half open, as 
she listened to my sad tale ; but when it was concluded, 
she neither burst into tears, nor gave way to lamenta- 
tions, but folding her arms upon her bosom, and meekly 
bowing her head, she sighed forth, “ God’s will be done.” 


212 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


Oh, Mr. Warlingham,” she exclaimed, after a silence 
»of some minutes, “how thankful I ought to be that this 
blow has fallen upon me while I have youth and health, 
and the full use of my faculties ; and what gratitude I 
owe to the dear friends that brought me up, for giving 
me such an education as may enable me now — I trust 
without much difficulty — to earn a livelihood !” 

Here was proof abundant (if proof had been needed) 
that Mildred’s energy of character, sustained as it was 
by sound Christian principle, would prove equal to the 
emergency. first impulse, as has been seen, was to 
submit readily to that which her Almighty Father had 
seen good to lay upon her ; her second^ to exert herself, and 
act upon the principles with which she had been imbued. 
Deeply affected and edified by her exemplary conduct, I 
returned to the vicarage ; and by that night’s post wrote 
letters to the brothers of the late Mrs. Long, and like- 
wise to Mark Fullerton, stating what had occurred. 

Three days afterwards, Mark arrived at the Mynchery ; 
and, with all the thoughtless impetuosity of his dispo- 
sition, hurried to Mildred, assured her that she was dearer 
to him than ever, and entreated her to emancipate her- 
self from her present troubles, and seal his happiness by 
one and the same word : she “never should have a wish 
ungratified,” he said; “in his devoted affection she 
should find more than an equivalent for every loss.” 

Mark, noble and generous in intention, had not 
given himself time to reflect, that such a declaration at 
such a moment could not be otherwise than deeply pain- 
ful to true feminine delicacy, and that Mildred must have 
been something more than human, if her pride did not 


THE WAY OF THE CHURCH. 


213 


revolt from the thought of yielding in the day of adversity, 
what in the hour of comparative prosperity she had de- 
clined. And such a feeling was the first emotion in 
Mildred’s breast, as with burning cheeks she listened to 
Mark’s address j but she struggled against it, and over- 
came it. 

“ God in heaven bless you, my dear, dear Mark,” was 
her reply, “ for such a proof of devoted love towards me, 
who am all but a penniless outcast. I never doubted that 
love. I never ceased to return it : you have^ you have 
ever had, my whole heart. I never can love any but 
you. But, Mark, I cannot unsay what I have said. If 
you are a member of the Church of England, and intend 
to continue so, I am yours from this hour ; but if you 
have withdrawn from her pale, my duty to God and the 
Church forbids my marrying you. 1 cannot, must not, 
dare not, do it. I may have to beg my bread ; my heart 
may break at your alienation from me : but, Mark, I can- 
not become your wife.” 

It was then that Mark announced to her that he had, 
within the last few weeks, joined the Independents, and 
was no longer a member of the Church of England ; but 
he engaged, that if she would only accept him, he would 
never attempt to bias her opinions, and strove by every 
specious argument he could devise, to make her under- 
rate the guilt of schism. 

But his arguments and entreaties were in vain. Mil- 
dred remained immovable. She saw her duty clearly, 
and had grace given her not to shrink from the discharge 
of it. And thus they parted once more, and for the last 
19 


214 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


time ; Mildred, in deep sorrow, — Mark, I fear in deeper 
anger : 

“ They parted, — ne’er to meet again ! 

But never either found another, 

To free the hollow heart from paining : 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 

Like cliffs which have been rent asunder : 

A dreary sea now flows between ; 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 

Shall wholly do away, I ween. 

The marks of that which once hath been.” 

That same evening, returning home from my walk, I 
perceived Mark coming down the road on horseback. I 
hastened forward to meet him ; but no sooner did he see 
me, than he put his horse at full speed, and dashed down 
a lane which lay between us. The next morning he left 
the Mynchery, and I have never seen him since. 

Alas, alas, however, my anticipations concerning him 
were abundantly fulfilled. The progress of schism, as 1 
often warned him, is always downward ; and downward 
it was in his case. The ark of the Church once deserted, 
he wandered hither and thither, and “ went to and fro,” 
but “ found no rest for the sole of his foot.” The views 
of the Congregationalists only suited his restless mind 
while the novelty lasted, and his vanity as a new prose- 
lyte continued to be flattered. Then, from religion he 
betook himself to politics, and became a champion on the 
(so-called) ultra-liberal side, and a declaimer against 
bishops, establishments, and church-rates; then from 


THE WAY OF THE CHURCH. 


215 


politics he veered back again to religion, became deeply 
tainted with Calvinism, and by an almost necessary con- 
sequence, (his mind being such as it was,) began to ques- 
tion the eternal Godhead of our adorable Redeemer. 
Tired of England, and in search of fresh excitement, he 
went abroad, first to Germany, where he imbibed the 
tenets of Rationalism ; and lastly to Geneva, where he 
has fixed his residence, and become an open adherent of 
the Socinian apostacy. 

Meanwhile, she who had borne herself so meekly 
in her troubles, and had taken up her cross so cheerfully, 
was in God’s good time eased from a part of its burden. 
The two surviving brothers of the late Mrs. Long no 
sooner heard of Mildred’s destitution, than they at once 
resolved to place her in such comfortable circumstances 
as their means permitted ; and addressing her in a joint 
letter, in which they expressed their gratitude to her 
for her devotion to their deceased sister, and assured 
her that all obligation must continue on their side, they 
desired to be allowed to fulfil Mrs. Long’s intentions, by 
settling on her an annuity of £200. A proposal so op- 
portunely and delicately made was thankfully accepted, — 
perhaps not the less so, because it enabled her to decline, 
without offence, a somewhat similar offer which had 
reached her through Mark Fullerton’s solicitor. 

It was while these things remained unsettled, and 
Mildred as yet knew not where to look for a home, that 
an incident occurred which made a deep impression on 
me, and which I heartily pray may have the same effect 
on those into whose hands this volume may fall. 


216 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


We were walking along the road which overlooked 
the Mynchery ; we both stopped, as it were, involuntarily, 
to contemplate its venerable outline, as, embowered among 
ancient trees, it seemed the very spot which piety and 
peace would have chosen for their abode. In a moment, 
Mildred’s eyes filled with tears, and she exclaimed. 
What w’ould / give for a cell in such a retreat as that 
must have been in old times ! Oh, what an act of 
sacrilege it was to destroy the refuge of the orphan and 
the destitute ! Oh, that some religious houses might yet 
be raised among us, where the friendless and forlorn 
might find a safe asylum, and meek and gentle spirits 
might experience, in daily prayer and praise, and works 
of charity, that rest and peace which this cold, rude, tur- 
bulent world denies them !” 

I cordially agreed with Mildred’s sentiment, and not 
the less so, when, a few years afterward, Mark Fuller- 
ton, determining to settle abroad, consigned his English 
estate to the auctioneer, and the Mynchery of Godsholme 
passed into another family, and thus changed hands for 
the twelfth time in the course of two centuries and a 
Chalf. 

Meanwhile Mildred Clifford, with a spirit exalted and 
purified in the furnace of affliction, continues to devote 
that life which she had early given to the service of God 
and the Church, to the same blessed cause. As years 
have rolled on, more opportunities than one have occurred, 
in which, if she had been so disposed, she might have 
married very advantageously. But her heart is not her 
own. Mark, the object of her daily prayers, still holds 


THE WAY OF THE CHURCH. 


217 


his place in her unchanged affections ; and although duty 
forbade her becoming his, she never could give her heart 
and hand to another. 

Thus her days pass on in the quiet unobtrusive dis- 
charge [of Christian duties in prayer and watchfulness, 
in active benevolence, in alms-deeds and self-denial, in 
unquestioning obedience to the Church’s ordinances, and 
in strict renunciation of all which a Christian abjures at 
baptism. And verily she has her reward. As hers is the 
faith that worketh by love, so do the love of others, and 
their blessings and their prayers, accompany her whither- 
soever she goes. Her cup of happiness, therefore, is prob- 
ably as full as ever, in this vale of tears, it is decreed that 
it should be ; and, perhaps, in that cup there were few 
drops sweeter than when she was enabled to do an act of 
the greatest kindness to the person who had so cordially 
hated her, and heard that Miss Prowle, humbled, peni- 
tent, self-abased, had declared, that ‘‘ if ever there was a 
Christian upon earth, it was Mildred Clifford.” 

And, Reader, young or old, this narrative of Mildred’s 
fortunes will be of full value to you, if it disclose to you 
the secret of her happiness ; if it teach you to reflect, more 
deeply than you have hitherto done, on the dangers of 
schism, — that they are immense, incalculable ; if it satisfy 
you that self-confidence and presumption are heinous 
sins j that to rely on your own unaided judgment is to enter 
on a path whose first stage is doubt, and whose end is 
destruction ; if it inspire you with the resolution that, God 
being your helper, you will do all things, and endure all 
things, rather than quit the bosom of the Church of Eng- 


218 


TALES OF THE VILLAGE. 


land ; that, you will keep to the old paths, and the good way, 
in which, by your Almighty Father’s mercy, you have 
been placed. “Commence,” as it has been no less 
beautifully and eloquently than wisely said, — “Com" 
mence with treating the Church as your mother^ and 
you will end in finding her to be, as she is, a most holy 
mother, whom you will love not merely as a means, but as 
an end ; whom you will delight to honour, and for whom 
you will be prepared, as in these perilous times we all 
ought to be prepared, to die. You will reverence her as 
the spouse of Christ ; and you will venerate her for the 
majestic simplicity and calm dignity with which she ad- 
ministers to her children, not intoxicating cordials, but 
the sincere milk of the word ; for her zeal without intol- 
erance, her moderation without lukewarmness, her faith 
without fanaticism, and her piety without supersti- 
tion.”* 

Finally, and above all, my younger readers, you have 
in this tale an example set before you, and an admonition 
given you, which, carried out in the details of your daily 
life, wilt assuredly make you happy both here and here- 
after. The example is that of one who learned, through 
the Church’s self-controlling discipline, to regulate her 
feelings, master her affections, and choose the stern path 
of duty, in preference to that of inclination. The admoni- 
tion is one which shall be expressed in words, wdiich, 
once read, you will hardly forget. I pray God they may 
live in your actions as well as in your memories ! 


Hook’s Sermons, (Oxford,) p. 91. 


THE WAY OF THE CHURCH. 


219 


“ Yet, ere the cares of life lie dim 
On the young spirit’s wings, 

JVow in thy mornforget not Him 

From whom each pure thought springs. 

So, in the onward vale of tears. 

Where’er thy path may be. 

When strength hath bow’d to evil years. 
He will remember thee /” 




J. F. Tbow, Printer, 
33 Ann -street. 




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